


Snow Without Winter

by neonheartbeat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Animal Death, Antisemitism, Attempted Murder, Ben Solo is a Mess, Ben Solo: Now Catholic Turbovirgin Flavored, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Catholic Guilt, Celibacy, Confessional, Crisis of Faith, Decapitation, Dry Humping, F/M, Familial Abuse, Gen, Harm to Animals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Light Femdom, Loss of Virginity, Multi, Murder, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Other, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Political Alliances, Prayer, Pregnancy, Priest Kink, Religious Discussion, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rey Palpatine, Roman Catholicism, Secret Relationship, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Spanking, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags Contain Spoilers, Threats of Violence, Torture, Trauma, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Virgin Ben Solo, Vomiting, War, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 138,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: It is 1492. Pope Sisinnius Sextus has just won the Papacy. He sends for his granddaughter, Renata, from the only home she has ever known in Ostia by the sea, to make her a piece on the board of the game he plays in Rome, where all roads lead.Cardinal Beniamino Solo, esteemed Cardinal of the College, who was put there by hands he loathes, prides himself on never once breaking his vows of chastity. He then meets the Lady Renata di Palatine, and his soul is cast into mortal peril...
Relationships: BB-8 & Poe Dameron & Finn, BB-8 & Rey, Finn & Jannah (Star Wars), Finn & Rey (Star Wars), Finn & Rose Tico, Kaydel Ko Connix & Poe Dameron & Finn & Rey & Rose Tico, Leia Organa & Ben Solo, Poe Dameron & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Poe Dameron & Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo, Sheev Palpatine & Rey, Sheev Palpatine & Snoke
Comments: 1334
Kudos: 784
Collections: Reylo - AU's (Star Wars)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [proporgo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/proporgo/gifts).



> Three things! 1) Mind the tags. 2) I studied medieval religions in college and did my best to present the role of the Church in the late 1400s as best I could while still stretching some things for the sake of the story. If I offend any Catholics I apologize in advance. 3) This is wholly dedicated to proporgo, without whose father daddy ben art I would never have been bitten by the Priestlo bug. Thank you.

ROME, ITALY

The August heat warped and shimmered above the cobblestones of Rome in a _mirage,_ baking the smells of the city into the very brick and stone that formed its walls, its buildings, its mighty palazzos and courtyards and alleys and streets: human flesh, stinking of malodor; animals; dung; food. All of Rome reeked this summer, and Vatican City fared no better: for all its splendor and pomp, it smelt of rottenness as all else did. 

Cardinal Solo did not flinch away from the stench, but kept his head high and his eyes forward as he moved along the street toward the Apostolic Palace, through the crowds that had gathered to witness with bated breath the annunciation of the new Pope, and who could blame them? Innocent VIII was dead, and now the whole of the College was fighting over his crown, corpse, and vestments like rabid dogs. Solo would not, in fact, have come at all to the enclave, except for the fact he had been summoned, and of course he must be: his vote would count as much as any other man’s, as much as he hated to know it. 

_I was never meant to possess power,_ he thought as he swept through the street and mounted the steps. He paused to give alms to a blind woman, begging in the crowd, and blessed her, then kept going. Solo had been the only son of a Giovanni Solo, heir to a merchant fortune, who had made one of the finest Italian families in Rome: Lady Leah d’Organa had been born French, a famous beauty, and still remained a woman of fantastic political acumen who was a great lover of art and in whose apartments could be found any number of maestros paid handsomely for their craftsmanship— but Solo the younger had found himself called to another purpose.

A worse purpose, his father had shouted: a higher purpose, his mother had said gently, and so young Beniamino Solo had taken himself off to study God and the Church and devoted himself so wholly that he had caught the eye of a powerful man at the young age of seventeen, who had recommended him, and— well. It would do no good to think of it all now, he thought with a shiver as he stepped into the cool, dim building of marble. He was a cardinal, and a wealthy one, who endowed nunneries and monasteries with his family’s silver and gold, and so his vote must be heard in the enclave. 

“Ah, Solo,” said Orsini, beaming at him as he crossed into the _Capella Sistina_ and the doors were at last barred behind him. “Now we can truly begin, ah?”

“I was beginning to wonder if our young friend would ever appear,” said Cardinal Colonna, who looked more sour than Orsini at Solo’s late arrival. 

“ _Ignosce me_ ,” said Solo flatly: why did these men insist on speaking Italian and not Latin, as they should for such a holy occasion? To him, it was merely more evidence of the corruption of the city: cardinals _not_ speaking Latin? God forbid! “ _Et vidi in gradibus caeca mulier, et tenuerunt eam, ut eleemosynam acciperet_ .” _Young friend_ indeed: he was thirty years old, and de’ Medici was all of sixteen, practically drowning in his scarlet vestments and cap. “ _Si causa morae veniam peto_.”

“Ah. Well, for the blind woman’s sake, we shall forgive you the delay,” said Colonna. His eyes swept Solo’s form up and down with some distaste, noting the black cassock piped in crimson against a room full of men in red vestments. “ _Indutus deberes pro occasionem.”_

That got a laugh from Cardinal Savelli, over within earshot. Solo straightened himself to his full height and looked down at Colonna with an expression that the older man stepped back from slightly, perhaps unconsciously. “ _Ego sum mitte in vestimentum fuerit Cardinalis. Tu mi amicus es in aede vestes mammonae.”_ He had on his cardinal’s ring, as he must, and a great waste it seemed, glimmering ruby-red on his finger. _How many of the poor would this ring feed?_

The cardinals within earshot looked vaguely unsettled, but there was no time to speak more on the matter, as the conclave had officially begun, and there Solo and all the rest would remain until they had decided who was to be Pope.

* * *

Deep in the heart of a villa in Ostia, near the rushing breeze of the Mediterranean, Lady Renata di Palatine rested her elbows on a carved stone balustrade and breathed in the sea air, her eyes shut, the sun glowing on her face. It was wonderfully warm here, and Grandfather had insisted she stay away from Rome until he sent for her, calling it unhealthy for children, so here she had stayed for the past nine years, waiting (she knew) for the old Pope to die, so that someone else might win the throne of Saint Peter, and so rest their godly bottom on the velvet cushions. 

In the meantime she had amused herself with books, poetry, Latin, art, and music: she was given everything she could want, and Grandfather’s coffers were full of gold that never seemed to end: but she was far from spoilt— no, her favorite amusement was to put on rough peasant clothing, mar her face with dirt and soot, and go down to prowl about in the streets of Ostia, listening to the merchants talk and playing at cards with the young men who lazed about in the square. She was quick enough to cheat, and she was no soft-handed young lady despite her piety, even at nineteen; she would have liked nothing better than to stay in Ostia now forever. 

A horse whinnied, and she heard a man’s voice from the front of the villa, so she picked up her skirts to go and see what the matter was. Through the house’s cool halls she went, the silks of her gown rasping on the marble floor, and out the front into the brilliance of the day, where in the courtyard a man was speaking with her steward urgently, and there was dust on his boots and his doublet as if he had ridden a ways with haste.

“Lady di Palatine,” he said, eye falling on her, and bowed deeply. “I bring great news from Rome.”

“Ah? Have they chosen the pope, then?” She stepped forward, interested: why would they have sent a messenger so far? 

“Yes, _signorina._ Your grandfather sends word.” The man handed her a letter, and she unfolded it with strangely trembling hands. “They have chosen him, and he has named himself Pope Sisinnius VI.”

 _Pope! My grandfather, the Pope!_ Renata dropped to her knees, clutching the letter to her breast, and took a gasp of breath before she tore open the seal, reading the contents. 

_Most precious granddaughter— We bid you come in all haste to Rome, where all roads lead. We will receive you in the Apostolic Palace with joy, and then our work may begin truly, for you are now the most beloved princess in Christendom. Come— come!_

He had signed it _Sisinnius VI_ and it was in the hand she knew so well from the letters he had sent her. Renata pressed it to her face, fancying that if she breathed in she might smell incense or the breath of God, but smelt only paper, and the faint scent of the wax used to seal it. “I will go at once,” she said, standing back up. “Here is a ducat, sir, for your trouble, and go with God.”

 _The most beloved princess in Christendom._ She stilled her beating heart for a moment, then turned on her heel, calling for her maids to pack every gown she owned and make ready to go to Rome.

* * *

Cardinal Solo descended the steps of the Sistine to the raucous cheers and applause from the crowd in the plaza, all pointing at hailing the cloud of white smoke rising from the chapel roof. Let them cheer and rejoice, for he would not: di Palatine had won the papacy, likely by simony or threat, and it was a thorn in his side that his vote had been the only dissenting one. He had felt for a moment a familiar feeling, that of being outcast, when his peers in crimson had cast their knowing eyes upon him as the numbers had been read, and it was a feeling he felt most keenly when in the College, away from his own home and his church where it pleased him most to do Mass and give Communion, ministering to the noble Romans in his diocese. Departing as soon as di Palatine had been paraded about, crowned, and chosen his name had been a good choice: the streets were still thronging with people and he could escape unnoticed.

He made his way down the streets, nodding distractedly at the calls of “Your Eminence” that greeted him on the high road, and walked all the way back to the high road, his feet finding their well-known path back home to Palazzo Organa. An unimaginative name, but an apt one: it had been his grandfather’s home, and remained one of the finest residences in Rome. His lady mother had made it a place of art and light and air, and he had his own separate apartments attached to the chapel, where he stayed when he was not at the College. Evening was falling as he stepped through the gate, acknowledging the servants with a nod as he took off his cape and draped it over his arm. “Tell my mother I have returned,” he said, slipping back into his boyhood tongue: no need for Latin outside the Holy See. 

“Yes, your Eminence. Is it true?” ventured the maid who curtseyed to him in the hall, “that di Palatine is the new Pope?”

“He is Sisinnius Sextus now,” said Solo wearily, “but yes, Cadella, he is. My mother will be most displeased to hear it.”

“To hear what?” demanded a voice from above, like Gabriel the archangel. Solo nodded mutely as his mother descended the stair, regal in dark blue, her hair coiled and braided atop her head and woven with a netted silver cap. Lady d’Organa Solo was a small woman, but carried command in her whole form such as was enough to move mountains, and Solo felt sure to wither under that gaze. “What shall I be displeased by, your Eminence?”

“That di Palatine has won himself the papacy.” Solo allowed himself a little sigh, and saw his emotions reflected in his mother’s face. The house of Palatine was an old enemy of theirs, and had been for decades, even before Solo’s uncle Luca had died in battle against Palatine armies: the winning of the worst of them to St. Peter’s seat was truly the most severe blow they had been dealt in ages. Solo tried to think of himself as apart, as separate from the Solo family, since he had taken his vows and removed himself to the paths of God and not Man, but it was sometimes a trial to do so, especially in the face of his mother.

“So,” said Lady d’Organa Solo, and rubbed her temples. “I see. Then I shall pray for all Christendom, since with such a representative on Earth, God must be punishing us all for our sins.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Solo. “He has outlined already several plans to reform various offices and put an end to waste within the Church.”

“Words are wind,” said Lady d’Organa. “Deeds make the thing true. Well, you must rise early for matins, so I shall not delay you any more, my son: go.”

* * *

He could have had the largest, softest, most sumptuous silk bed in Rome if he had so wished: a room of light and air on the finest floor in the house with carpets. Instead, Cardinal Solo kept a small room next to his large chapel, in airless quarters that had been designed for the choirboys when the place had been built, on a bed of straw and wool and a cold stone floor, with flickering tapers at each side of his small table where his rosary and crucifix rested night and day with a small carved icon of Saint Jude. 

He undressed down to his linen shirt and knelt on the hard stone: fifty Ave Marias, another twenty prayers to St. Jude, and ten to the Lord Himself, asking why, _why_ had he allowed such a man as di Palatine to be His representative on Earth? _How, Lord? How can he be Your mouthpiece? How is he worthy of such a thing?_

No answer came from Heaven, whether by thunderbolt or by heavenly messenger. He knelt and agonized for hours, falling into a half-trance in the cool darkness, the pain in his knees dulled to near-nothing, until the bells rang and he jolted upright, his back aching mightily: matins had rung and he should be in the chapel.

Up he went, stiff and in pain: on went the cassock and his scarlet zuchetto, on went his shoes. Morning had come, and he had work to do: the choirboys had already lit the tapers upstairs, but there was more to be done, people to guide, his flock to shepherd, he had duties…

All of these thoughts, however, immediately ground to a halt the moment he entered the chapel and saw, among his ordinary pious flock who came for matins on Tuesdays (not many), the people coming up the center aisle, between the benches: two women, well-dressed for travelling, and both looking exhausted. “See, there is a cardinal: this place will do as well as any other, Rosa,” one was saying, and as Solo drew closer he saw the speaker’s face.

A young woman, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, in the bloom of youth and health: a sharp, straight nose and a wide, expressive mouth, and gull-wing brows over round hazel eyes— as she took her hood down to speak to him he saw the modest little cap over her hair and the dark plait wound about her head and tied with pale blue ribbons, strands falling down loosely about her temples from travel. How unlike every other noblewoman in this city she appeared! Her clothing was rich and well-appointed, but her companion’s was serviceable and sturdy. A young noble girl, then: travelling with a maid. “Cardinal, I know it is matins-time, but I must take confession,” she was saying to him, almost apologetically, and he forced himself to hear her.”I cannot step foot into the Holy See without doing so: I desire my soul to be unburdened.”

“Confession,” he said blankly, then, “Yes. I can give you confession, my child. Brother dal Prato?”

The friar who had been residing there several weeks came to his side at once. “Yes, your Eminence?” He had a pale, waxy sort of face, and his unfortunate bulging light eyes were not made more handsome by his tonsure of gingery hair: Solo did not care for him, had not for years, and thought him too oily and ingratiating for a friar, but his thoughts were far from dal Prato as he looked down at the woman.

“You may lead matins. Come, child.” Her maid curtseyed and waited behind, and the girl did not look back, but went with Solo.

She followed him to the confessional box, away from the body of the church and set in one wing of the transept where they would not be heard. Solo climbed into the box and slid the doors shut, leaning back and feeling like he was too large to fit in the cubicle as the girl climbed into the other side with a rustle of silks and slid her own doors shut. The soft perfume of tuberose wafted through the latticed screen between them, and Solo pressed his lips together: what on earth brought a noblewoman out here at midnight, traveling, wearing scent? “ _In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti_ ,” she said. “My last confession was a week ago exactly, Father…”

He realized a beat too late that she was asking for his name. “Solo,” he supplied. “Forgive me, child. Go on.”

“I… I have sinned,” she began tremulously. Solo clasped his hands together between his knees, fighting to pay attention to her words and not to his errant thoughts. “Very greatly, Father Solo. I— I cheated at cards in the streets of Ostia— five times. Oh— and I played at cards gambling, too, I expect that’s a sin— ten times. I threw a stone at a horse one time.”

“What did the horse do to earn such a blow?” asked Solo, shaken out of his trance.

“Oh! nothing at all, Father— only he was being ridden by a man who had tried to steal from the market, and when I threw the stone at the man I accidentally hit the horse.” She sounded very upset about it, near to tears.

Solo pressed his mouth into a line. “Go on, child,” he said, trying to sound very grave.

She sniffled. “I was sharp with the maids when we left Ostia, and— I expect I am guilty of the sin of vanity, too, because I was so afraid that no clothes I had would be good enough for Grandfather when we left that I made them take all my things together. I also am— I— Father, is being afraid of a duty a sin?”

Solo considered this. “It can be, if the duty is given to you by God, and if you allow fear to tempt you from the path God has laid.”

There was a long exhale of breath from the lattice. “Well, my grandfather is now God’s representative, and the duty was given to me by him, so that must mean that God told him to send for me to Rome, though whatever for I cannot guess. He says I am the most beloved princess in all Christendom now.”

A spear into Solo’s breast could not have shocked him more. The young lady’s _grandfather—_ grandfather! How could di Palatine’s blood run in the veins of this image of beauty and youth, this pure young soul who wept at the thought of harming a horse and demanded confession at matins so that her soul might not be weighed down by the sin of being harsh to her maids? It was not possible. “I did not know I was so graced this morning,” he managed to say. “I find myself entertaining angels unawares, as Paul writes.”

She laughed a little on the other side of the screen, and Solo was seized with the desire to do anything at all to make her laugh again. “An angel I am surely not, your Eminence. Did my grandfather tell no one I was coming?”

“Not the College of Cardinals, at least,” said Solo. “Perhaps he wishes to surprise us all and present you at a feast day.”

“Oh— my sins,” she remembered. “I fear what my grandfather’s plans are for me, Eminence. I have not been to Rome since I was ten, and everything seems much...changed.”

“Doubtless a great city is one thing through the eyes of a child, and another through the eyes of a woman,” Solo told her. “I myself thought Rome great and holy as a child, but when I became a man— ”

“You put away childish things?” she finished, a note of humor in her voice. 

“A lady who knows the words of St. Paul,” he commented, intrigued. 

“Alas, I cannot look at Rome _per_ _speculum in ænigmate_ any more,” she said softly. “Cardinal Solo, my confession is done.”

“Indeed. _Ego te absolvo_ ,” he said, making the sign of the Cross. “Go with God, lady.”

“It is good to know I have already made a friend within the city walls,” she said. “Might I return here for my confessions, your Eminence?”

“You are the granddaughter of the Pope, lady. You must go where you will, and choose your confessor as you please,” he said carefully, hardly daring to breathe.

“Ah! My confessor. It pleases me, then. Good-day, Cardinal Solo.” He heard her step forward lightly and push the doors open, then the rustle of her travelling gown as it swept away, and as her steps faded he sank forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. 

Certain sins had always been so far out of his mind as to seem wholly uincommitable: something out of reach, untouched forever. That had been his downfall, then: _pride_ in his own seeming inability to commit such sins as lust. And now, due to his own desire, he would be doomed to sit in confession with her every time she pleased it, smelling her tuberose perfume— and if that was not bad enough, she was a Palatine, his family’s enemy. 

He left the confessional box and looked into the other side out of habit (people were in the habit of thoughtlessly leaving things inside) and saw that she had left a hair-ribbon, pale blue, lying on the floor of the box. Solo knelt and picked it up, absently tracing the soft smoothness with his calloused thumb: how small and delicate a thing it seemed against his hand! He put it in his sleeve without another thought, and left the confessional, working his way back to the small congregation hanging on dal Prato’s every word as he left the church and went back to Palazzo Organa. 

* * *

“Why would you think me displeased at such news?” asked Lady d’Organa Solo, sweeping around in a mood of great excitement. “My own son, confessor to the Pope’s granddaughter: this could not be more fortuitous. You may hear secrets, plots, whispers of political strategy: we might bring the man down for his bribes and corruption! Does the Pope know of you yet?”

“I have no earthly knowledge, Mother,” said Cardinal Solo, standing in the center of the room. “She was on her way to the Holy See and the Apostolic Palace.”

“But did she seem close with her grandfather?” asked Lady d’Organa. “Does she seem the sort to tell him everything, to share his confidences?”

“Not so much,” answered Solo, “for I had the impression that she has not seen him in some time, not since she was a child of ten, and that she— ” He paused: to share a confession was a sin, but it would do him no good to hold back, not when his mother was waiting. “She is afraid of her duty here, and does not know for what purpose she was called from Ostia.”

“Ah! So not an overmuch loving grandfather, our Pope Sisinnius,” said Lady d’Organa. “That may be useful to know: you shall know more over time.”

“I do not even know the girl’s name,” said Solo. 

“Oh, that is easy, my son— she is Renata di Palatine, and she must be eighteen or nineteen by now: her grandfather has certainly held to her virtue with a fist of iron.” Lady d’Organa looked from her window as dawn began to break over the city. “He always did know how to play his cards, di Palatine. No doubt she shall be wed to some king or prince.”

“Indeed. She seemed very modest and sweet-tempered. I fear— ” Solo held his tongue: what he feared was that Rome would corrupt her as it had corrupted all that seemed to pass within its walls, but he could not say that to his mother. “I fear that city life will be a shock,” he said instead. 

“It may.” Lady d’Organa turned and faced him. “My days of asking you to be my eyes, I fear, are not yet over. Go to the College today, and see if he speaks of her at all.”

He bowed stiffly. “Yes, Mother,” he said, and without another word, left.


	2. Chapter 2

Within the Apostolic Palace, Renata di Palatine sat in a copper tub lined with fine linen sheets, all her hair down and being washed: Grandfather had given orders that she was to be received in the Sala Regia, and of course nothing would do but that her hair be washed and styled according to the city’s fashions, and that she be clad in her loveliest gown. It hung over the back of the screen, and she eyed it as her new maid scrubbed her back: brocade spun from gleaming gold thread, a pure white, thinnest silk chemise puffing through the sleeves, slippers, hair ribbons. “Are you sure that my hair must be uncovered?” she asked the maid. She rather missed Rosa, but there had been no help for it: she must have all new maids, fashionable ones who knew the styles of Rome.

“Yes,  _ signorina _ . It is the fashion. Perhaps a caul of gold and pearls on the crown?” suggested Bambina, rinsing her back. “You will look the picture of an angel.”

“You are the second person who has compared me to an angel this day,” said Renata, leaning forward and sighing with the heat. “I cannot think why.” The novelty of a bath that filled from a tap in the wall, heated by a stove behind it, had worn off as soon as she had begun to sweat.

“Oh? Who was the first?” asked Bambina.

“A cardinal who I gave confession to this morning,” Renata said, closing her eyes. “Oh, I was so tired from travel, and I told him who I was, and he said he was like Paul, entertaining angels unawares.” She half-smiled at the memory. 

“Which cardinal was that, my lady?”

“I cannot recall his name. I was very tired.” Renata yawned. “But he was strange-looking. His hair was not cut in the fashions I see men wear on the street, you know: short above the eyes and long in back, but it was the same, mostly, all round his head, and curled a little. And his face was so strange: I thought him solemn, or maybe grim, or even angry, but he spoke kindly and was ever so excellent a confessor.”

“In this city, you shall need one of those,” said Bambina, and helped her up, rinsing her hair with rosewater and assisting her from the tub.

* * *

Cardinal Solo stood like a blemish of coal in a crimson room as the College all stood aside, lining the walls of the Sala Regia, and genuflected with the rest as Pope Sisinnius VI entered in his white robes trimmed in gold, blessed them all, and sat on Saint Peter’s throne, lifting his white-shod feet to rest on the stool in front of him. He felt a stab of revulsion as he looked at the old man, with his mask of benevolence covering the lined, withered face. At least, God willing, they did not have long to wait before the man died. At least he had the decency to speak in Latin to the gathered cardinals.

“Cardinals of the College! We thank you for coming, for we must present our most beloved child to all Rome, and all the world.” He raised his hands, and the great doors opened, the Cardinals nearest the doors turning and whispering, creating a murmur of sound like a wave on the shore. Solo turned with the rest of them, already knowing what he would see, but still wholly unprepared for the sight that met his eyes. “The lady Renata di Palatine, our own flesh, our granddaughter, has come to our bosom at last.”

She was clad in gold and white, glowing like a candle-flame among the crimson robes. Solo’s mouth went dry, and he could not tear his eyes from her form as she walked, slow and regal, up the aisle between the gaping cardinals. Her hair—her  _ hair _ —was all uncovered save for a netted cap of gold thread, set with pearls, flowing down her back in a river of dark, shining waves and braids, coils and twisting locks caught with gold thread, ribbons, pearls. Solo was possessed with a terrible desire to run his hands through the mass, and from a few expressions on some faces he caught glimpses of, he was not alone in his feeling toward the lady, for men were men before they were Cardinals. His thoughts were sharp and angry, honed and keen as a knife: they had no right, they did not know her at all. At the same time, guilt crashed upon him, for he knew her only a little, and had no claim to her past that of confessor. What had come over him?

Renata di Palatine stepped up to the throne and sank deeply and gracefully into a curtsey, her back to Solo and the other cardinals as she spoke in flawless Latin. “ _Ego gratias ago tibi, Sancte Pater, pro grata.”_ _I thank thee, Holy Father, for thy welcome._

“We are pleased beyond measure to have you by our side, child,” said Sisinnuis Sextus, and extended his hand with the great ring on it for her to kiss. She did so, and he raised her to her feet, smiling as he presented her to the College, who applauded loudly, but Solo heard none of it over the beating of his heart.

* * *

She was entrenched in a sea of red, like blood, and Solo could not get near her. It had been over an hour, and seemingly every cardinal must needs be introduced to the young lady, on the arm of her Holy Grandfather, beaming prettily at every single red cap that came her way. It made him sick to think about.

He fumbled in his sleeve and his fingers closed about the scrap of silk there, half-forgotten from the morning: there! God be praised, a way to speak to her, an excuse. He shouldered his way past several cardinals, keeping his face an impassive mask, and found himself face to face with Renata di Palatine and the Pope, who stared at him with venomous eyes that were hardly masked by a kindly veneer. 

The Lady Renata did not appear upset at all to see him, and her face lifted as if she would say something… but Solo saw the old man’s hand tighten just above her elbow, and she gave pause, her face settling back into a calm expression. “Cardinal,” she greeted him.

He did not have a chance to speak before the Pope did. “Ah. Renata, my dear, this is Cardinal Beniamino Solo. He is a pious and grim soul: he whose vote was the sole one for Orsini. We wonder that he dares to show his face at all,” and the aged mouth split into a leering smile.

If this was meant to throw her off, it did not appear to do so, though she appeared doubtful. Solo instantly knew, as if God had shouted it into his ears, that he  _ must not _ let Sisinnuis know that he had met her already, so he only said, “It is kind of Your Holiness to count my vote at all: such a vast majority, you might have been content to overlook it. I am honored to meet you at last, Lady di Palatine.”

She caught on at once, and shot her grandfather a look from the corner of her eyes that he did not catch. “And I you, Cardinal. Can you tell me who you might recommend as a confessor, here in Rome? I should not like my sins to be confessed to just anybody, you see.”

“Oh,” said the Pope, “that is wise; you want our very own Brother Fumus for that, Renata. He is trustworthy enough.”

“I shall have to meet him first, Holy Father, and decide if I like him,” said Renata with all the innocence of a child. “Why, how can I confess to a man I do not feel at ease with? And so many men here are strange to me. I confessed this morning, however, to a very kind man, somewhere— oh, I know not where, but he was ever so understanding.”

“Confessed? You—” The Pope went scarlet as a cardinal’s robes. His hand gripped her tightly and he pulled her roughly to him, the girl’s eyes widening and her body going stiff as he spat in her ear, in tones so low only she and Solo could hear. Solo made an unconscious movement as if toward her, and stopped himself: this was the vicar of Christ, he could not— “Renata, you cannot confess sins to just anyone in this city. You will tell us the name of the man, and after we find him you  _ will _ do penance for—”

She looked so startled and upset that Solo could not help it. “Holiness,” he said quickly, stepping forward, “I am afraid the lady was jesting at my expense. I am the man.”

“You?” said the Pope, in a tone that was not sure if it wanted to be angry or shocked. He looked at Solo, and his cold, flinty eyes seemed to search his very soul, as if he was peeling back the layers of skin, flesh, bone. Solo stood his ground and did not flinch away, and as sudden as snow in spring, the eyes became warm, fatherly, welcoming again, as if the man behind them had made some decision. “Ah, I see! I see. Renata, my dear, you ought to have told us. We know Cardinal Beniamino Solo to be a spiritual man of great piety. You shall be safe with him in your confidence. What does the cardinal have in his hand, Solo?”

Solo unfurled his fingers and looked down: it was the ribbon from her hair. “Something the lady left in the confessional this morning at matins, Holiness,” he had to say. “It is right that it should be returned to her.”

“Ah!” Renata stretched out her hand and took it, smiling, unaware of the thing that had passed over her grandfather’s face and looking as if he had never touched her at all. “Willingly I take it back. I should not have been so careless. I beg your pardon, Cardinal Solo.”

“And willingly I give it,” he said, bowing slightly. 

“You should stay a while,” said Sisinnius to Solo. “I have need of new accountants, not these old fools who cannot tell a five from a six, and you were ever a steady eye for numbers, my boy.”

Solo felt the blood drain from his face. To be so close to the Palatine family, to the girl he felt so horribly drawn to? This must be a punishment from God for not doing proper penance after his sins this morning: sins of lust, sins of pride. "I—Holy Father—"

"Oh, you ought to!" exclaimed Lady Renata, beaming up at him: and suddenly it did not matter that the Pope likely had a thousand more qualified accountants, or that his apartments in the College had not been lived in for years, or that his mother would be furious. All else faded, and the only thing he saw was Renata di Palatine's bright smile. He murmured some words of assent and found himself kissing the Pope's ring, then drifted away borne on his own disbelief and shock.

* * *

Renata had never had such a marvelous time in all her life. Great men were bowing to her, kissing her hand, and Grandfather was happy, happy to see her and happy to welcome her: she must have pleased him well, even in spite of how angry he had been to learn she had confessed to someone he did not know. Poor Cardinal Solo had looked as if he was about to swallow his own tongue, and then had come to her rescue with a few well-placed words to mollify Grandfather's anger. She wondered why he did not keep apartments here in the Palace already: surely it was godly enough for even a pious man as he? 

As soon as Grandfather had escorted her from the Sala Regia and the doors to the papal apartments were shut, he released her arm. "You comported yourself well," he said dryly, moving off toward the center of the room. Renata paused, unsure of herself: should she follow?

"Thank you, Holy Father," she said.

"But we are not pleased with that business with Cardinal Solo," he said sternly, and she felt herself quail: what had she done wrong? "You ought not to have stopped for Confession on the road."

"I wished to enter the city with my soul unburdened," she said, uncertain. "If I have sinned in the doing, I beg your forgiveness."

He let out an incredulous laugh. "Sinned! No, you foolish child. Ah, how unused you are to politics, to the intrigues of the Church! No, no. You must understand that the sins of a pope's granddaughter may be sold with ducats, whispers, and all woven into a net to ensnare us, to bring us down from our seat, and to make you nothing in the eyes of the people." 

Renata was aghast. "But when confession is given, it is never to be shared: the confessor is commanded by God to hold the strictest confidence—"

"As if that stops any man from pursuing power. The sooner you learn this, the better: any man who is not allied with us is either to be won to our side or to be outwitted at every step of the game." Grandfather looked irritated at her, and she bent her head in confusion, trying to stop tears in her eyes: did every man in this city see her as a piece on some great playing board? Was she truly so foolish and slow?

"Am I not to have my confessor, then?"

"Oh, Solo? Yes, you may have him for a confessor, but guard yourself. Here is your first intrigue, little Renata: his mother, the Lady Leah d'Organa Solo, is an enemy to us, and has been for some time. He will likely report all he has said and seen done here today to her. What say you to that, eh?"

Renata stood still with her lips parted in amazement: the Cardinal an enemy, when he had been kind and treated her with such good humor and thoughtfulness, not knowing who she was? Impossible... but Grandfather said he was an enemy, or the son of one, so he must be so. "I say... that I should guard myself in confession?" 

Grandfather nodded, but still did not look pleased. "And tell him untruths, in as convincing a manner as possible, of a nature which cannot embarrass you, but perhaps which if revealed would embarrass their revealer."

She was shocked. "But that is lying! I cannot lie in confession, Holy Father, that is a sin—" He looked at her with the most profound disappointment, and she felt it cut her to the quick: he had sent for her to do her duty by God, and now she quailed at it? "I mean," she amended, shaken, "that if it is my duty, then I shall... try, Holy Father."

A smile spread across his wrinkled face, and she felt glad at once: he was pleased now, he must be, she would do her duty. "That is good, little Renata. That is good. Now, you must go and rest. We know it was a long journey, a long one, and you must be fitted for new gowns and fine things: the old will not do at all, not at all."

* * *

“I know not why you are distressed,” said Lady d’Organa Solo, sitting in her salon while her son paced the floors in a state of agitation. “This will be as good an opportunity as any for you to keep your eye upon Sisinnius. Do cease this pacing, my son: you shall wear a groove six inches deep into the marble.”

“I cannot do this,” he said tersely, fists clenched tight. “I cannot trade a young woman’s secrets for  _ gain _ , Mother, not for all the gold in the world.”

Lady d’Organa’s eyes snapped bright. “I see. So our family shall come to ruin, after all: the male line ends with you, and we shall lose everything we hold dear, all for your ideals of piety. I should never have allowed Luca to go off to the Salt War after you chose to take your holy vows: had I known our family would end in disgrace and poverty, I should have taken another husband and borne more sons.”

Her words cut him sharply. “Uncle Luca fell at the hands of Palatine armies, of Palatine men. I gave up the world of intrigues and politics when I entered a life of service to God. Nothing will bring Luca back from the dead, Mother. Not even should we bring down the Pope and drive his daughter from Rome in sackcloth and ashes.” 

“You were ever the dramatic boy,” said his mother, sighing. “I do not wish to drive the girl from the city, Beniamino; she has done no wrong. I only wish to be two steps ahead of di Palatine. If he agreed to let you be her confessor and then asked you to stay in the Palace, he wishes to keep you close for his own reasons. She will likely be asked to give you false confession. Therefore, you shall tell me nothing at all of her confession, and you… ah! you shall report her confessions to the Pope only, and play at being estranged from me.”

“I will not report her confessions to the Pope!” said Solo, outraged. “God in Heaven, Mother! She would bear the whole of the punishment, should I even hint at her sinning at all to him!”

“Ah,” said Lady d’Organa after a moment, looking at her stricken son’s face. “I see. You care for her. That is a complication.”

“She is an innocent child, and I would rather burn at the stake than see her harmed,” he said. “If you had met her, you would understand me.”

“And if her innocence is a fine fresco, what then, my son? She is a Palatine: they are trained from the time they can talk to say that which others like to hear, to play-act! And she is the last one, too: aside from those cousins of the Pope in Venice— she is his blood, and will be a deadly weapon for him to use. You should take care that she is not used against you.”

“Why should she be used against me?” demanded Solo. 

“You are a man,” said Lady d’Organa simply. “You are a man who has taken vows; she is a pretty young thing of nineteen, and upon both of you rest the future of your families, like it or no: the Pope will thrust her towards you as a temptation, and should you break your vows, he will ruin you utterly.”

“You forget one thing, Mother: I cannot give this family heirs.” Solo’s face burned in shame: he should have been stronger in his temptations toward the girl, for she was already buried deep in his mind. “Therefore his worst fear should be me renouncing my cardinalship, wedding, and having children: the Solo family would prosper and the Palatines should fall.”

“When I say ruin you,” she said sharply, “I mean that he would have you killed, my son. A claim that a Cardinal of the College, an enemy of his family, has dishonored his very flesh and blood, the granddaughter, the princess of all Christendom? You would be found guilty of any crime he wished to lay upon you. Therefore, guard yourself against Renata, for my sake, if not for your own.”

* * *

In his own small, mean chamber, Solo, stripped naked and holding a whip, lashed his own back, muttering prayers from numb, pale lips.  _ Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.  _ His fault, his own fault: he had taken his path so long ago, when his mother was sure she would have more children, but none ever came, and now he was a fruitless branch on his family tree, and all would wither and die. The lash bit into his skin, and he shut his eyes, unwilling to cry out. Pain was a gift from God, something to remind him of how Christ had suffered: he would not cry out, he would be silent as Christ had been. He must do his penance: the Lady Renata was not to be thought of in any way an ordinary man might think of an ordinary woman, and he would not allow himself to think so again.

Another swing, and the lash broke the skin truly, a trickle of blood running down his back. Solo bit his lip and groaned, his chest heaving, as he stilled his hand: he had numbered himself two dozen lashes, and he had seven more to fulfill. “God be thanked,” he murmured to himself, light-headed, “that I am strong,” and he raised the whip once more and delivered to his back the last seven lashes: when he was done, blood stained the stone floor.  _ Cardinal’s red, cardinal’s red, I spill my blood for Holy Mother Church, I spill my blood. _ He staggered to his feet, tasting blood: he must have split his lip, and not noticed.  _ God, let me be purified, let me be chaste again. Let me not allow lust to rule my heart _ . His back burned like fire, and he crossed himself in front of his crucifix, eyes wet with tears, then turned to find the vinegar: clean the cuts, dress them, and sleep. Yes, sleep; and may sleep bring no dreams, only darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: physical abuse! mind the tags

Renata di Palatine hurried down the hall, accompanied by her maid, Bambina: she was not to go anywhere unaccompanied, by order of the Holy Father, and so must take a maid with her everywhere. Poor Bambina huffed and puffed, trying to keep up with her: the maid was not accustomed to hurry. “My lady, wait, I beg you!”

Impatient, the girl paused by a pillar, allowing the poor woman to catch up. “Oh, come along! The Prince of Venice will be here any moment, and I want to spy from above the Sala Regia. Grandfather says it is a solemn occasion; that is why I wore my blue silk, even though I am not to meet him today.” She sorely missed her dear Rosa, who would have run nearly as fast as she, had the girl been present, but there was no hope for it

“Yes, lady, I know it: if you are pleased, I will wait by the back alcove and catch my breath,” panted Bambina. “You are entirely too fleet of foot,  _ signorina _ : you ought to take up dancing.”

“Oh, you tease me so, Bibi,” said Renata, laughing. “There, I shall stand here and watch.” She drew aside the golden curtain hanging to shield the upper galleries from view, and peeped down into the assembly of cardinals that waited to greet the Doge’s son (he was not really a prince, but he might as well have been, she thought!). There was a sea of red, there in the back the spot of black she had come to recognize as Cardinal Solo, and there, walking up the center of the aisle, was a figure in brown and gold at the head of a procession, marching with purposeful stride up to the throne where sat Grandfather. 

Renata mused as the figure made his way up to the great chair of Saint Peter. Grandfather had been displeased with her of late, and she was at a loss as to why. He liked to make little barbed remarks about her bearing, her manners, and her lack of some quality she could not pin down: it had something to do with sin and something to do with her behavior towards gentlemen, but what he meant for her to do she could not make out one whit. She had confessed to Cardinal Solo, but it had been two weeks since she had come to Rome, and she had only done confession once: he had seemed less friendly and more stern, and she was afraid she had done something to offend him, though what that was she could only guess. 

The Prince of Venice bowed low, having reached the throne, and someone announced him as “Pavo di Damerone, prince of Venice, second son to the worthy Doge.” Renata leaned forward, peering down: he kissed Grandfather’s ring and stepped back. 

“Your Holiness,” he said, doffing his feathered cap. She could see him fair enough from her place, halfway down the gallery, but only his back: he was well-formed and young, and middling height. “I am honored to be here in the Holy City of Rome at your invitation.”

“You are welcome here to our fine city, young Prince,” said the Pope benignly, and smiled. “You shall be our honored guest while the negotiations are settled.”

Negotiations? Renata frowned. Some boring matter to do with politics, no doubt: she crossed her arms and leaned on the carved marble rail, looking out distractedly down into the assembly. Cardinal Colonna was picking his nose, thinking nobody was looking, and she grinned in spite of herself, looking about for the next absurd thing she might see. Instead, she looked down the aisle and caught Cardinal Solo gazing up at her with a crimson bloom painted across his high, angular cheeks: she blinked in surprise, then looked down, and went just as scarlet: her fashionable, tight gown had not been made for leaning forward over high rails, and her breasts, pushed up beneath the thin silk chemise, were threatening to spill out of it. She jerked herself upright, looking back at Solo to mouth an apology, but he was looking away, up toward the throne, quite composed.

“I would like to see the lady with my own eyes,” Pavo di Damerone was saying, and Renata made herself snap back to attention: what lady? Herself? What had she missed?

“No doubt you do, no doubt,” Grandfather said. “But we must sadly deny the request at this time: the lady is indisposed. Perhaps another day.” He waved the Prince away, and di Damerone bowed low, then left the hall. 

What on earth had she missed, while she had been watching Cardinal Solo? Renata scolded herself as she stepped away, heart pounding. “Bibi, you must follow as you can: I must speak to the Prince if I can catch him.”

“What?” gasped Bibi, fluttering her hands as Renata hiked her skirts up and ran for the stair. “Oh, oh,  _ oh, _ His Holiness will flay me alive!”

* * *

Pavo di Damerone paused, astonished, as a pretty young woman clothed in a rich blue gown with her hair under a fine silk cap nearly ran into him in the hall. “Ah!” he said, startled, catching her by the arm as she righted herself. “Are you all right, lady?”

“Oh, forgive me,” she said, and sank into a curtsey. “Prince of Venice, yes?”

“I am,” he said, amused. He was a good-natured young man who did not put much stock in ceremony and pomp, as much as he liked them. “And you are?”

“I am only a maid to the Lady Renata di Palatine,” she said modestly. “My lady sent me to look in on your presentation unseen, and report to her: now I have been caught, and must beg your forgiveness, and hers.”

“Ah! A maid to the lady I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting!” He smiled. “I hope she is not too indisposed. The marriage negotiations cannot go forth without a public proposal and acceptance.”

The young woman blinked sharply. “Oh! Was that the reason for your coming, then? Nobody told her of it.” 

“Yes, his Holiness believes that a union between Rome and Venice would serve to edify the relations between them, and to strengthen trading.” Pavo bowed slightly. “I must go, as I have been commanded to find my rooms and rest. Will you give your mistress my regards?”

“Oh, gladly,” said the girl, and curtsied again, hurrying off. Smiling, di Damerone watched her go: such a sweet tempered young thing was a rare sight to him, and rarer still in Rome. He continued on his way, and forgot the encounter entirely.

* * *

Solo strode down a hall, sweat prickling under his cassock and stinging his back badly: last week’s confession had resulted in another round of penance for him. The lash had not been kind, and he had done another two dozen strokes this morning after he had woken to find his seed spilled in his drawers and vague memories of a carnal dream involving the  _ principessa: _ now he would have to do penance yet again for the thoughts that had possessed him when he had looked up and caught sight of Renata di Palatine’s bosom swelling soft above the bodice of her gown. He cursed himself silently: why had he not been content to simply look at the Pope?  _ May God deliver me from the bosom of lust, _ he prayed as he walked,  _ and let my— _

He did not have time to finish praying. The object of his torment rounded the corner and stopped short at the sight of him, her face turning very pink, and he froze like a deer who hears the hounds. “Oh! Cardinal, I am sorry, I thought I was in another part of the Palace entirely— you must forgive me, these halls are a labyrinth, and I have lost my maid.”

Solo found his voice. “It is unwise for you to be unescorted, my lady.” He did not mean to sound so dark and harsh, and she stepped back, eyes wide. Solo tried to soften his tone. “I mean only that his Holiness will find the maid and punish her, if you are found without a companion.”

“I had not thought,” said Renata, and looked distressed at the very idea. “Poor Bibi! You must help me find her, Eminence. Why, she would not harm a fly, and I am the one who left her, anyway: I wanted to see di Damerone and ask why he had come.”

“You were not paying attention to the speech, then?” asked Solo, faintly amused despite himself. “It concerned only you.”

“No, I was wondering what Colonna found so interesting in his nostril,” she said with mischief, tapping her nose and making a face. Solo smiled despite himself, and immediately composed his spirit again: she was beaming, as if amusing him had been all she wanted to do, but her face fell as he regained his stern expression. “And after that, I am afraid I saw you, Eminence, looking at me, and had to— adopt a better position. I am sorry.”

Solo shut his eyes; now all he could see in his mind was her young, fresh bosom, small and pert and—  _ Penance. Penance.  _ He shook his head. “You were not at fault.”

She looked down at the floor. “I was careless. I did not intend to be so. Forgive me.”

How could he not do so? “Gladly, _signorina.”_ _And you must forgive me for my own sins: they are many._ “You truly heard nothing of the negotiations?”

“No, but I met di Damerone as he was leaving, and he told me they were marriage negotiations. Is it true? Am I to be wed?” She looked at once excited and a little lost, as if unsure of herself, and Solo nodded brusquely. 

“It is true. To whom precisely— that remains to be seen; di Damerone is the second son of the Doge, but the Doge himself is widowed twice over, with three sons.”

“I should not mind being married to di Damerone,” said Rey softly, blushing. “He is a very polite and handsome man. And I hear Venice is a beautiful place.”

“It is,” said Solo, endeavoring to keep his tone calm. “Now, let us find your poor maid, before His Holiness has the woman run down by dogs.”

“Oh, Grandfather wouldn’t,” she said, but not with much conviction, and they went off side-by-side in search of poor lost Bibi.

* * *

Renata fought the impulse to slip her hand through Solo’s arm as they walked, whispering down corridors. He was a large man, easily over six foot, with broad shoulders that seemed to almost split the seams of his black cassock, and his long, grim face was stern and impassive below his soft, gentle eyes. She thought how much finer and handsomer he would look in a suit of armor, or in a fine doublet, and immediately banished the thought from her mind: he was a man of God, and she should not think such things of him. 

Down the halls they crept together, and she began to feel as if she would never find Bambina again, until they rounded a corner and nearly collided with the poor woman, who was near tears. “Oh! My darling lady, my sweet lady, do not say I shall be whipped!” she cried, and fell at her feet, sobbing outright.

“Up with you, good woman, up with you,” said Solo gently, kneeling and raising her up. Renata saw his large hands curl round Bambina’s plump arms, helping her stand again, and felt a stab of jealousy. “No tears, now. You are safe. The Pope knows nothing.”

“Oh, your Eminence,” gasped the maid, wiping her eyes and trembling. “You are truly a good man, a pious man: bless you, Eminence. Lady Renata, you  _ must _ not frighten me so again: I could have had a fit, I could have fainted—”

“Bibi, you are safe, do you hear?” Renata stroked her hair and fixed her cap and shushed her gently, all the while aware uncomfortably of Solo’s eyes fixed on her. “Safe. Hush, now. I only ran off to find di Damerone, and got myself lost. You shall not be whipped if I or the Cardinal have anything to say about it.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” Bibi sniffled, and curtseyed to Solo. “Thank you, your Eminence, a hundred times over: should you need anything here, you have only to call, as I am in your debt. Lady, let us go to your chambers: you dine with di Damerone and his Holiness tonight, and you must look as lovely as ever you have.”

“That will not be a difficult task,” said Solo in a very soft tone, and Renata turned in surprise at his words. He flushed deep crimson and turned away. “Good day, my lady.”

“Good day, your Eminence,” she said softly, and watched him go, the wide black-clad back striding away. 

* * *

Dinner was a lavish affair: the Pope sat at his high seat with Renata on his right and Pavo di Damerone on his left. The Venetian retinue sat all along the table, with several wealthy cardinals from the College on Renata’s side, talking and eating and deep in conversation. Sisinnius had clearly wanted his favorites to be singled out for this feast, which made it all the more interesting to Renata that Cardinal Solo had been seated halfway down the table, still stubbornly in his black cassock piped with scarlet, but wearing a crimson silk cape to honor the occasion. He almost looked handsome in color, and she fought to keep her attention on Grandfather, whispering in her ear.

“Do you see that cardinal with the grey hair and beard, child? He owns seven properties, four of which were monasteries— that one has a cousin who can call up vast armies on one command— that one…” and so on and forth, until her head was spinning. 

“Grandfather,” she whispered, hardly daring to ask, “why is Cardinal Solo here? I thought you disliked him.”

“And have him scurry off to his old mother, saying we had disrespected him? Never.” The old man grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “He has wealth of a sort, child. Now,  _ his _ father was a merchant out of Naples, who amassed a fortune through trade: his mother a Frenchwoman of noble blood— he is a sole heir, and will bear no sons, since he is a cardinal. All the wealth of the family goes to him upon his mother’s death, if she does not squander it on commissions and donations to nunneries and orphanages. Do you understand?”

“I think so. But Grandfather, I thought it was good to give to the poor.”

Sisinnius’ face did not change, but under the table he gripped her arm with such vicious force that she almost cried out in pain. “You shall never contradict me again,” he said calmly, smiling as if speaking some kind compliment. “Do you understand, Renata?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” she gasped, tears in her eyes, and he released her. She rubbed her arm beneath the table, trying not to cry, and through her blurred vision caught Solo looking at her with something like pity in his eyes.  _ Pity me?  _ She sniffed, trying to blink away the tears.  _ The princess of all Christendom? _ Here she sat in her glimmering silvery gown, regal and beautiful, and yet she wanted nothing more suddenly than to run from the Holy See itself and go play at cards with the street boys of Ostia again. 

Pavo was speaking. She made herself listen. “Your Holiness,” he said, raising his cup, “I thank you for your hospitality towards my party and myself. Truly, this feast is beyond all compare, surpassing Venice in every way.”

The tables applauded politely, and Renata followed suit as Grandfather spoke. “You are our welcomed guest, dear boy. Have you words to speak to our Lady Renata?”

“I do,” he said, and Renata’s heart leapt within her: he would propose marriage now! She would be wed, and on the way to Venice! Trembling, she stood, and let herself be directed to the front of the high table, hardly daring to breathe as Pavo di Damerone stepped forward and bowed deeply. He was so handsome: an olive-skinned, sun-kissed face, a fine jawline, good teeth, eyes a painter would wish to portray!  _ Ask me, ask me! _ she begged silently. 

“Lady Renata di Palatine, it would be my heart’s delight to ask you, on behalf of my father, the Doge, to take his hand in marriage.”

Renata’s face went cold as her hands. He must have spoken wrong: his father?  _ Father? _ The Doge of Venice was sixty-seven, and had sons as old as she; it must be a mistake, he must have… and then she looked at the Pope, who was smiling pleasantly, and realized it was no mistake at all. Nobody had warned her. Why had no one told her? 

She could not speak. The room went silent.  _ Oh, God in heaven, help me, send an angel, send anybody! _ Her vision danced with sparks of light, and swam: she stumbled, and someone called out, “The lady faints!” A clamor seemed to assault her ears: she was blind, slipping down. Something struck her head, and two arms caught her steady, lifting her upward. Renata opened her eyes, but all she could see was a head, the features flat and indistinct, the head bearing a halo of golden candlelight. “ _ Deo gratias _ ,” she murmured, half-sensible. Her head ached dully, as if from a great distance.

A voice shouted, “She is bleeding. Where is her maid? Call a physician at once!” Then, much quieter, came a gentle, “My lady, can you hear me?”

“An angel,” she whispered. How odd, this angel smelt of parchment and wool and sweat. She was lifted into the air with no trouble at all, and the din faded as soft, cool air drifted about her face, and after that she knew nothing.

* * *

Renata stirred. She was lying on her bed in the Papal Apartments, the great soft feather-bed with its silk velvet coverlet and fine smooth sheets and soft goose-down pillows, and there was a pleasant, low, continuous sound coming from somewhere, like a rippling stream. As she opened her eyes and took in the room, she saw the physician speaking in low tones to Bibi; several anxious-looking guards peered on, and a few ladies she knew to be of various cardinals’ families. There was sunshine pouring through the curtains of her window, and that was confusing: it had been night when she had gone to dinner...

The sound continued. It rather sounded like singing, and as she sat up, head throbbing, she at last marked its source. Cardinal Solo was kneeling by her window, head bowed, and he was praying in a steady, soft stream of Latin. 

“Eminence,” she whispered, touched. His breath caught in his throat, the endless prayer stopped, and he started again, not even looking up at her.

“He has not moved all night,” said Bibi, hurrying to her side and sitting down. “We were all so afraid for you, my lady.”

“All night?” Renata looked about in bewilderment, and memory came back: the feast, her grandfather’s disapproval, di Damerone’s proposal. “I fainted, did I not?”

“Yes, lady, and you have been senseless for nigh on eight hours. The physician—” She was interrupted by the man himself, who shouldered over, peered at her ears and eyes, and nodded as if Renata was some horse he was examining for market. 

“You must stay abed for another day, lady,” he said. “I would bleed you—”

“No need for that,” said Renata, looking down dispassionately at her silvery gown, spattered with dried blood. “I have bled enough, I think. Am I allowed to bathe?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Then I bid you get these ladies out from here. Only Bibi. And Cardinal Solo may wait in the outer room of my chambers, praying, if it pleases him. He has been here all night?”

The physician looked grave. “Yes, lady. His Holiness was moved by the Cardinal’s concern: he carried you up himself and would not leave your side. He has prayed on his knees for these eight hours, while the Pope has prayed in his chapel.”

“I could not ask for a more devoted minister,” she said, touching her head. It had been bandaged in linen, and the blood had dried: brown flakes came away. “You may leave us now, all of you. Thank you for your care and concern.”

They all filed out, whispering and crossing themselves as the great oak doors shut tight, and Renata sat up without Bibi, feeling very much shaky and dizzy despite her sleep. She had lost a shoe, and her hair-net was askance. Both her feet slipped down to find the floor, and she stumbled slightly on weak legs. Solo leapt up as if he had been waiting for her to fall and caught her by the arms, holding her steady. “You must not exert yourself,” he said hoarsely, and she looked up into his face. He looked mortally tired, with dark circles beneath his reddened eyes.

“I am sorry if I frightened you,” she breathed, and he drew her slowly to her feet without any more words. His arm served as a fine support, and he led her to the fire, where Bibi was already boiling water for her bath. “You may leave me here, Cardinal. I thank you.”

“With your leave, I will go into your salon,” he said, releasing her as Bibi took her arm. There was a moment where she thought for a dreadful moment he might lean down and kiss her, but he did not: he only moved away, his gait slow and painful as he left the room and closed the doors behind him.

“Oh, Bibi,” Renata said quickly, turning to the maid as she unlaced the ruin of the gown, “I thought he was an angel from Heaven when he caught me up. I am afraid I have been a fool.”

“Not so much as poor Pavo di Damerone,” said Bambina, lifting the chemise from her skin and helping her into the hot bath. “The poor man did not know what to do, and blamed himself most dreadfully for the whole affair. He thought you knew of the arrangement.”

“What has everyone been saying?” asked Renata, closing her eyes as a pail of hot water coursed down her back and hair, loosening the dried blood. 

“His Holiness has said that you were so delighted and awed at the proposal that you fainted. Now, all the fine ladies of Rome will no doubt do the same when shocked.” The maid scrubbed her hair, rinsing all the blood out: the bathwater was faintly pink. “I have no doubt that he will come to see you at once, lady.”

Renata tried to keep her eyes from filling with tears. “Oh, Heaven help me. I do not know what I will say to him.”

“Well, you ought to think of something, and fast.” Bibi finished rinsing her clean and helped her out of the tub, drying her hair and putting a fresh nightgown on her, along with a robe: her finest one, silk damask. “I will ask the tailor and the laundresses if the gown might be washed—”

A knock, sharp and impatient, sounded on the oak door. “Renata?” called a voice that she dreaded to hear. “Are you decent?”

“Yes, Holy Father,” she called, grasping the robe tightly shut and making sure her eyes were downcast. The doors opened and the Pope came in, leaning on his stick, eyes bright and keen: behind him, she could make out the shape of Cardinal Solo, still kneeling on the carpet, a black mass with a pair of eyes that watched the Pope’s every move. 

Sisinnius looked her over like he might look at a haunch of venison, ill-prepared. “So you are not dead. We are glad,” he said irritably. “Your cut is not bad. Have you a head-ache?”

“A little, Grandfather,” she said. 

“You shall stay abed for the day the physician prescribed and then another half-day. It would not do at all to have you go mad. The Doge awaits your response.”

Ah, there it was, the dart to her breast. “I did not know I was to marry anyone, let alone the Doge of Venice,” she said as evenly as she could. The door was still ajar, and she knew Cardinal Solo might be listening. “I should rather wed Pavo di Damerone, if that might be arranged; he is handsome and young—

Sisinnius’ withered old hand darted from his sleeve and grasped her arm, pinching tightly. She withstood it: she would not cry out, she could not! “Do not presume to speak to us of what you would rather or rather not,” he snapped. “We need you wedded to the Doge: he has riches, he has command of armies, he has a fleet to rival all others in Italy: if we are to drive the Turks from our coasts we need  _ ships _ , you idiot child.”

Rebellion was a sin. Renata knew this, and yet the resentment bubbled up in her throat until it burst from her mouth. “If only I had known His Holiness was in need of ships, or even that the Turks needed to be driven from the coasts, perhaps I would have submitted easier: alas, I am a foolish girl whose head is entirely empty, as I am reminded so often, and therefore voice my displeasure at my own confusion.”

He struck her. Not across the face, where anyone might see a mark, but with his stick, across the thigh, so hard it seemed the carved walnut might snap. She screamed and fell to her knees in agony, tears running down her face, and Cardinal Solo burst through the half-shut door just as Bibi stepped back in terror. “Lady Renata,” he said in a voice gone black and deep, his eyes pinned directly on the Pope, then slipping to her. “Your head must be troubling you, else you would not have fallen: I will help you up.”

The Pope stepped back, eyeing Solo with a sort of frosty, grudging, calculating look as the man got his hands on her elbows and pulled her to her feet, helping her limp toward the bed. “We are grateful for your assistance, Cardinal,” he said. “The poor child needs more rest... and prayer. You shall stay at her side. We will have food sent up.”

“I do not need food,” said Solo in his dark, flat tone.

“Ah, man cannot live by bread alone, but it certainly helps when combined with prayer,” said the Pope, smiling thinly. His eyes slid over to Renata, who was trembling atop the bedclothes. “Renata.”

“Your Holiness?” she managed, hardly able to look at him. 

“We will tell Pavo di Damerone that you graciously accept his father’s proposal, and that the wedding shall be held as soon as the Doge comes to Rome.” His tone left no room for disagreement.

Renata shut her eyes, tears on her lashes. “Yes, Grandfather,” she whispered.


	4. Chapter 4

Cardinal Solo sat at the bedside in a chair that had been brought up for him. A platter of food had been brought up, of which he had eaten only the bread and drank only the water. He was no simpleton: he knew that the Pope was toying with him like a cat plays with a mouse before devouring it, but he could not now bring himself to care as he looked down into the dozing girl’s face. She looked softer, less frightened, in sleep, and he allowed himself the sin of desiring to wring Sisinnius’ neck like a wet cloth. He had heard the sickening crack of a rod on flesh, and known immediately from Bambina’s face what had transpired: it might be some hand to play later, but for now he only watched Renata sleep, mindful of nothing but his own inner torment, and dutifully taking tally of the penance he must do later for his thoughts.

How simple it would be to lay his hand on her brow, under pretense of testing for a fever— but that would be a lie, therefore those were two sins: false witness and lust.  _ Ten lashes, _ he thought, shutting his eyes against the thought of the pain.  _ Remember your vows, your place; remember where you are and who she is.  _

“Cardinal,” said a wan little voice. He opened his eyes at once to see her pale face looking up at him, tears slipping from her eyes down the sides of her cheeks. “Is he gone?”

“The Pope? Yes, lady. He has retired.”

She shut her eyes then, and took a great, shuddering breath. “If I tell you something, Cardinal, will you not— tell him that I said it, or anyone else?”

_ I would carry any secret you asked of me to the grave, and then in Heaven beyond, keep it. _ “Yes, lady.”

“He struck me,” said Renata, so pitifully that Solo wanted to gather her to him, carry her out of this forsaken palace. “On the leg. It gives me pain, even now.”

“I will call the maid to make you a cold cloth for it,” he said. 

“No, do not call Bibi. She is a good woman, but she might let it slip in the kitchens or in the hall, and it might get back to the ears of his Holiness.” Renata sat up stiffly, wiping her eyes. Solo fought to not look at her filmy silk nightgown. His flesh was rousing to the situation, and he swallowed, mortified at his weakness; the woman was injured, and here he sat with a filthy mind. “Will you get one? There is cold water in the pitcher by the window.”

“Of course,” he found himself saying, and before he knew what he was doing, he was back at her bedside with the wetted cloth and she was pulling the hem of her nightgown up to the top of her thigh. 

Solo cursed inwardly: cursed the Pope who must have chosen to strike her there, who must have orchestrated this whole affair solely to bring him to his knees. Her calf was as shapely as the rest of her, and her knee finely formed: her thigh was a thing of art, something that might have been painted by a master. Then he saw the ugly mark across the flesh of it, and all his temptation vanished at once, replaced by pity for her and anger at Sisinnius. The bruise was already scarlet, turning a hideous shade of purple in the center. It was the length of his hand, and the thickness precisely of the Pope’s walking-stick. “It must hurt,” he said softly, and laid the cold cloth to her leg, pressing down gently as she whimpered. “I am sorry.”

“It will trouble me some until I am recovered,” she said, blinking away tears. “I am glad you are here, Eminence.”

“You may call me Father, you know,” he said lightly, folding the cloth and going for the pitcher to wet it again. “I am your confessor, after all, and I was once a priest.”

“Oh, I would not like to be impolite,” she said, shaking her head. “I have not called anyone Father in years. I think I called my own father so, though I do not remember him much at all.”

“Do you not?” Solo asked, wetting the cloth and turning back. 

“No. He and my mother died when I was small— at least, they must have, for I do not recall them in the least. There was only ever Grandfather, and after I went to Ostia he was like… some distant power, who influenced my education and all details of my life in letters from Rome.” She looked a little bitter, and Solo frowned. 

“You need not call me Father then, if it pains you.” He nearly asked her to call him only Solo, but the familiarity of that would be passing a line he did not wish to cross for her sake.

“My maids in Ostia used to call me Rei. One of them was from Portugal, and said it was because I was like a little tyrant of the nursery, and the rest did it for ease of shouting when I was in some mischief,” she said, half-smiling. “Nobody has called me so in ages, it seems: you might call me that, if you like.”

Solo almost choked. “You ought not to allow such familiarities,” he said grimly, taking no pleasure in how her face fell. “You are the beloved princess of all Christendom. Set yourself apart, for your own sake, if not for mine.” He handed her the wet cloth.

“Are you in some danger, Eminence?” she asked quietly as she took it.

“I may be,” he told her. “From your holy grandfather, if not from my own—” and he bit his lip and said no more.

Thanks be to God, she did not press the matter. “Grandfather has said I should bear false confessions to you.”

He closed his eyes. “I see. Then I shall make sure to absolve you also for the sin of false witness, after every confession.”

Renata’s eyes filled with tears. “You are very kind,” she managed, and looked away, folding the cool cloth over on her long bruise. “He struck me for not wishing to wed the Doge of Venice,” she said a moment later, tears still dripping from her eyes. “But I have heard from some of the ladies here that he has been married twice, and his first wife died bearing him this last son, and the second bore him no children at all and died in an accident, they say. And they also say he is a cold and domineering man, with wealth but no true affection for anything but his dogs.”

Solo sighed. “It is true,” he admitted, “that the Doge is a hard man to like. But you must do your duty by God and by your grandfather, lady. That is the burden which noble ladies must bear in this world.”

“And what burdens do noble men bear?” she demanded, sitting up sharply. “What of my grandfather’s burdens, or yours?”

He shook his head bitterly. “My own? Mine is to have no worldly comfort in the face of all my peers in their villas and estates; to do penitence and to know every day that I shall never bear an heir to my family’s name: there will be no more Solos, no more d’Organa’s, after my mother has passed from this world to Heaven. To walk knowing my path is to forsake all comfort, all sin, all temptation: that is my burden. You will wed the Doge, and you may be in misery, but you will bear him a child and be sent away to live in a Venetian palace on your own. You will have comfort and luxury, and your husband need only be an... occurrence, every so often.”

“And if I am barren?” she shot back, hotly. “What then? Am I to die in an accident, too?”

He sucked a breath into his mouth that startled her with the sharpness of it. “No. If the Doge should ever try to harm a hair on your head, all Rome would rally to your defense. At best, the marriage might be annulled on account of barrenness, and you would be brought home.”

“Home,” she said, wiping her eyes on her fine silk sleeve. “Home is not here, Eminence. It is Ostia, by the sea and sand and sky. And when I returned to Rome, I would only be a— a coin of lesser value for Grandfather to bargain with. What sort of life would that be?”

“Have you some reason to believe you are barren?” he asked, trying to understand her fear.

“No. That is, not to my knowledge. I—I have my courses in their appointed times, and I am healthy; so all the physicians have said.” She flushed a pretty rose color, and he looked away: what a question to ask the girl! 

“Then try to have no fear. God will be with you, and I will pray fifty  _ Aves  _ every night for your safety and happiness.” 

Renata shut her eyes, overcome, and nodded tightly as tears streamed down her cheeks. “You are kinder to me than anyone else here, aside from Bibi,” she whispered. “Do not forsake me, Cardinal. Do not betray me.”

“Never,” he said, unable to say anything else. “It may be a sin to lie to the Pope, but if the need arises I— I will do it, lady.” Unthinkable: to lie to the Pope was to lie to God Himself. Solo felt dizzy with the terror of it, and swallowed hard, unable to stop his hands from trembling. He pulled them away from her and clasped them together in his lap, and prayed silently:  _ God forgive me for the sins I have not committed yet.  _

Her hand, her little hand, pressed to his shoulder, and the gentle touch woke the pain of his still-healing and bruised back, but he choked it down for her sake, and for the sake of the touch itself. “I will pray for you, too, Cardinal Solo.”

“Thank you, lady,” he said softly, and stood. “I will see if any salve can be found for your hurt if it still pains you on the morrow, and I will be discreet about it.”

“You need not tell me so; I knew you would be,” she said, offering a small smile. “Send Bibi in as you go, if you would.”

“Indeed I shall, Rei—” Solo bit off his last word: he had spoken without thinking and been too familiar, but she was smiling a little wider, a flush across her cheeks, her eyes downcast as if she was too shy to look at him. He made his way as quick as could be to the door and slipped out, too mortified to speak any more, and with a terse word to the maid, he was out the doors to her chamber and striding down the hall. 

What had he  _ done? _ He could not speak like this to her: someone would overhear him and report it to the Pope, and he would be done for. Even the barest hint of familiarity would be enough to have him killed, if Sisinnius wished it.  _ I will not do so again. I will not. I must not. I cannot.  _

To his own chambers he went, slamming the doors behind him. Let the guards speculate, let the maids gossip: he did not care. His lustful flesh was aching for her, and he wanted nothing more than— no, he would not allow himself to think it. Solo went directly to the basin of water at his window, stripped to his skin, and lifted the silver dish, pouring the cold water over his chest and back. He gasped in relief as the cold, exacerbated by the breeze through the open window, bit into his skin and chased desire from his body. 

Solo fell to his knees, hardly feeling the pain from the bruises that the past weeks’ penitence had left there, and he began to mutter the first in a long, long line of  _ Ave Marias _ , praying for his soul to be delivered.

* * *

Renata knelt at Mass as piously as she could, waiting for Communion to be given. Grandfather always gave it to her first, up at the altar, and usually enlisted the help of a Cardinal of the College to assist him: there were a great many people waiting for Mass from the Pope’s own mouth every Sunday, but especially on All Saints’ Day. The morning had been clear and warm, with the promise of a cool evening, and she wanted to take a turn in the gardens, or go walking about the streets and give alms, as she liked to do Sundays with Bibi. Everyone in Rome knew her face by now, even the beggars, and they would cry out her name and wave and smile. It had been more than a month since the ill-fated proposal, and so far there was no sign of the Doge, although Pavo di Damerone promised he would be coming as soon as some business of his had been settled. She felt very inclined to wait as long as need be: she was in no hurry to wed.

At last, his Holiness stood, intoning in his old voice all the words of the Sacrament which she had nearly committed to memory by now. She had her eyes shut as she had prayed, and she opened them now, looking up to see Cardinal Orgoglio standing by her grandfather as the chosen cardinal of the day. She did not trust him much, but dutifully nodded at him with respect as he passed by her with the consecrated wafers, and Grandfather took his own in both hands, raising it so all could see before pressing it into her open mouth. He did not look at her hardly at all as he moved on, in fact: the bruise on her thigh had long since healed to a yellowish mark.

Renata shut her lips, the body of Christ dry and crumbling on her tongue, and chewed, swallowing. 

* * *

“ _ In nomine patris, et, filii, et spiritus sancti.  _ My last confession was two weeks ago, Father Solo.”

Solo sat on the other side of the screen: he knew Pavo di Damerone’s voice as well as any others by now, but confession was supposed to be blind. At least it was a welcome change from sitting at his desk in the Treasury. “Go on, my child,” he said.

“I have sinned,” said di Damerone, sounding guilty. “Greatly. I have cheated at dice and cards seven times, and fornicated with two… no, three men’s wives: I have gotten drunk nine times, and kissed the maids and fondled them.”

“Against their will?” asked Solo in his most severe tones. 

“No, Father.” Pavo sounded shocked. “They liked it very much: they laughed at me and called me a fine handsome fool, and some kissed me back.”

That was surprising. Solo had not considered that maids might like such attention. Fornication was still a sin, however. “I see. Go on, my son.”

“And—” Pavo shifted in his seat: fine velvet scraping the wood softly. “I confess another sin, a sin I should have confessed first, since I believe it to be the worst of all of them: I covet… a lady.”

“A lady?” Solo frowned. “You neighbor’s wife, so to speak?”

Pavo sounded miserable. “Worse, Father. My father’s intended wife, so; my step-mother, I suppose, although they are not wed yet, and only promised. Still, it is a grave sin, and akin to incest, I am told.”

One of Solo’s hands curled itself into a tight fist, all the black wool of his cassock bunched and trembling in his grasp. “It is a terrible sin,” he said, when he could speak clearly. “You ought not to think of this woman lustfully again. The sin of fornication can be forgiven: the sin of incest is most terrible and noxious in the eyes of God. Thou shalt not uncover the nakedness of thy father’s wife.”

“Yes, Father. But my father… he is not a kind man, or a man given overmuch to gentleness.” Pavo sighed deeply. “His second wife, my last step-mother, was believed to have died in an accident. It was not so. She displeased him, and he tried to have her poisoned: when the attempt failed, she was taken out hunting with him. The straps on her saddle were cut almost through. She was flung from her mount when Father dropped a handkerchief and the horse startled. Her neck was broken.”

Solo felt a cold sweat break out on his back, his lip, his brow. “Murder, then?” Was this to be Renata's fate: wed to a murderer?

“Yes, Father.”

“What had she done to earn such ire?”

“She miscarried. Twice early, the last late of a son. My father was furious and said she must have ended them purposefully, and so justified his actions.”

The cardinal crossed himself. “May God have mercy on her soul,” he said softly. “And yet… your father’s temperament is not a justification for the sin of lust toward your step-mother to be.”

Pavo shifted again. “I know it, Father. But perhaps… would it be a sin if the engagement was broken, and I wed her myself?”

“The engagement cannot be broken. And if it were broken, the eldest son would then take the responsibility of wedding the lady, would he not?” He remembered a hair too late that he was not supposed to know who was sitting in the confessional box with him. “Are you the eldest son, my child?”

“No,” admitted di Damerone. “That falls to my elder brother. I am but the second son.”

“So.” Solo nodded. “There is nothing more to be said. I absolve you of all your sins: fornication, gambling, cheating, drunkenness, and coveting of your father’s betrothed wife. You will say seventy Aves and twenty Paternosters, every night for a month.  _ In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti. _ ”

After di Damerone had departed, Solo sat in contemplation. Most of the man’s sins were no worse than he normally heard on any given day, but the fact that he desired Rei ( _ Renata,  _ he corrected himself mentally, shuddering) to wife was… not an excellent prospect where the Pope was concerned. It was the Doge’s fleet and men he desired, not the bad prospects of a second-born son, and whether Renata was treated ill or well was no concern of His Holiness Sisinnius Sextus.  _ I should have stormed the Sala Regia and throttled the old man _ , he thought helplessly, opening and closing his fingers.

Well, he might tell Sisinnius of the young di Damerone’s desires and temptations, mightn’t he? After all, Renata had not confessed any such feeling toward the man, apart from saying she preferred the idea of wedding him over his father, which any maid might: the last thing Solo wished was for her to be distressed by unwanted advances. Was that not worth breaking the seal of confession for? In one stroke he might gain some trust from the Pope and get rid of Pavo. The more he considered the idea, the more he liked it. Let the young Venetian prince go back from whence he came: there would be nothing but temptation for him here anyway. Breaking the confessional seal could be excused, if it was to do some good... yes, very good. Solo stood and made his way to the Sala Regia.

* * *

“Your Holiness, I seek a private audience,” he said quietly as he knelt in front of the throne of Peter, kissing Sisinnius’ ring. “It concerns a confession of a most distressing nature,” he added, so softly that only the old man could hear.

Immediately, the Pope’s eyes came alight with greed. “Ah, a matter most pressing to our attention?” he asked.

“Yes, your Holiness,” said Solo.

“Good, good. Come— no, not you lot,” he said irritably to the Vatican guards who made to follow as he stood, “only Cardinal Solo here, and Orgoglio: you all stay here.”

Solo’s heart dropped into his belly. Orgoglio! Orgoglio was one of the Pope’s oldest allies: he did not want Orgoglio to overhear their conversation at all, but there was no use for it: he set his shoulders and followed both men into the antechamber. 

“Well?” asked the Pope, turning on Solo as soon as the doors had shut. “What is this confession you have heard?”

Intensely aware of Orgoglio’s steely, grey-eyed stare, Solo could only say, “Your Holiness, Pavo di Damerone confessed to me that he desires your granddaughter to wife. He may even go so far as to interfere in the engagement and wed her himself.”

The old man went red with rage. “Wed her! Our Renata, wedded to some poppycock second son with nothing to his name but feathers in his hat and spurs on his heels? We think not.”

“Is the girl amiable to his affections?” asked Orgoglio.

“Not that I know,” said Solo honestly. “If your Eminence desires my opinion, I should say that young Pavo should be sent back to Venice, so that he does not fall prey to his own lust and shame the lady and yourself, Holiness.”

“It seems this wedding cannot go on,” said Orgoglio, looking at the Pope. Solo got the distinct feeling that he had stumbled into a conversation he had not been privy to, and his belly sank like a stone. “I say, Holiness, we call off the engagement and wed her to… perhaps the cousin of our Brother Fumus, the Duca di Fumoso of Genoa. He has vast lands, an army, wealth…”

“But not enough ships to fight the Turks, Orgoglio,” said the Pope.

Solo barely heard.  _ The Duca di Fumoso.  _ He fought to keep his composure as horror snaked up his spine, curling into his belly to rest. He had not wanted this, he had only wanted di Damerone out of the way.  _ No. God, I beg You, if there is any mercy—  _

“Ships may be found in any port from Genoa to Naples,” said Orgoglio. “We announce a holy crusade, place a tax on goods to pay for a fleet, and Christendom shall flock like doves to hand over their coin to fight the Turks. Fumoso has enough ships to command a fleet. Lady Renata goes to Fumoso, your Holiness gains lands and an army larger than the Doge could promise, and any child of their union could be wed to, perhaps, a Sicilian...”

“I see,” said the Pope, smiling. “Yes. Ah, Cardinal Solo, you have shown your true colors today, and done well. Tell me: how are the accounts? I am sure you have committed them to memory by now.”

Solo could barely breathe; it was only by the grace of God that he managed to sound conversational. “We still have a large debt to pay to Naples, your Holiness. The tax would be a wise choice.” 

“Excellent. Then I shall inform young di Damerone when it is convenient that the engagement is to be called off quietly and he must return to Venice.” The Pope’s eyes slid across Solo like a snail on a leaf, and he grinned even wider, showing his yellow old teeth. “You have done well, my son.”

Solo’s stomach turned. “Thank you, Holy Father,” he said, and bowed low, turning and leaving the antechamber. Penance, he must do penance for this awful thing he had done, and may God forgive him.

* * *

The whole of the Apostolic Court was in an uproar three days later. The Pope, announcing a new engagement for his darling granddaughter; the young handsome Venetian sorrowfully bidding her farewell and departing for Venice! What could have happened? Whispers flew in the court like birds, mouth to ear and murmuring: perhaps he had outraged  _ la principessa _ , perhaps she had dishonored herself, perhaps this had been the Pope’s plan all along. Whatever the reason, she was absent from the  _ Sala Regia _ and from all dinners, and had shut herself up in her apartments. Some said it was to pray, some said she wept without ceasing. It was all a mystery, and even more so was the noted absence of Cardinal Solo from any feasts or fetes as the week drew on. When he did appear in the College, he was sallow and drawn, with a pale mien and a grim face: nobody knew anything, and whispers flew and flew and flew.

* * *

“Do you love me, Bibi?” asked Renata tearfully one evening as the maid combed her long hair. 

“You know I do, my Rei,” said Bambina softly. 

“Will you not tell me why the engagement to the Doge was called off and why Pavo left so quickly?” Renata wiped tears from her eyes: she felt so dull and slow and sad all the time, and could not stop herself from weeping: that was why Grandfather had banished her to her apartments until she could control herself properly and be cheerful again. “He must have disliked me: I must have said something wrong.”

“Oh, lady,” said Bibi, patting her shoulder with a soft hand. “You must know that Pavo liked you.”

“Did he?” Renata sniffed, and let the tears fall: there seemed no use to anything now. Genoa was so far away, and the Duca di Fumoso was a cousin of some Cardinal she didn’t know at all, and he was nearly ninety, and not any kinder than the Doge of Venice, rumor had it. “I did not know.”

“Yes. He told me—” and Bibi blushed, stammering for a moment. “When we spoke, on occasion, he told me that he thought you both clever and sweet, and confessed to me that he desired you to wife, but knew it was a sin, since you were to be his father’s wife.”

“To wife!” Rei was astonished. “Bibi, what can you mean? And what cause would the prince have to speak to you at all of such things?”

“Men say things when they are in bed, Rei,” said Bibi, very red indeed. 

“In bed! Bibi!” Renata covered her mouth in shock. “But if he desired me, why was he…”

“With me?” Bibi laughed. “Oh, my lady Rei, men take their pleasure oft when they can find it. I did not mind it at all: he was ever so gentle and kind, and his hands were careful, and he made me laugh.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” said Rei, frowning. “I thought— why, are we not taught that Eve’s curse was to have sorrow and pain in childbearing?”

“Indeed, when it comes to the childbearing part,” said Bibi. “And many a lady has had sorrow and pain in a marital bed, but that is because most men know nothing of how to please a woman. It is an art to be learned. Have I shocked you, my lady?”

“You have!” said Renata, eager to change the subject: the mysteries of a marriage-bed were an enigma to her, and she did not wish to expose her own ignorance. “But never mind that: how did my grandfather find out Pavo’s true heart?”

“I heard from the chambermaid, who heard from another maid, who heard from a groom, who heard from a choir-boy, that the prince confessed it to a Cardinal, and the Cardinal told the Pope, for fear you might be disgraced, and the sin of incest come upon your head and the head of di Damerone.”

“A Cardinal!” Rei mulled that over for a moment. “But Pavo only confessed twice when he was residing here: once to Father Romano, who is deaf as a post, and the other to Cardinal…” Realization broke over her, and she leaped from her seat, almost yanking her locks of hair from the hands of poor Bibi, who yelped in fear. “Oh! Oh!” she cried, furious. “Oh, I shall kill him, I shall rend him limb from limb!”

“Lady! Whatever can you—”

Renata did not hear her: she was storming down the halls in her nightgown and over-robe, hair loose and wild. She knew where Solo’s chambers were, having been told where everyone’s were some time ago, and flew down stairs, upstairs, down a hall, through a gallery, into another hall, and thrust the great door open, tears running down her face. 

She stopped short as the sight before her came into view: Cardinal Solo was kneeling in his study, before his altar, a many-tailed whip in his right hand, and blood running down his naked back. She did not know what to say, where to look, what to do, and then she remembered:  _ I am the princess of all Christendom, I may say what I please! _ “You told him,” she hissed, advancing into the room. “You  _ told _ him.”

Solo rose painfully and turned to face her. His countenance was haggard and drawn. “Yes,” he said in a voice as low and flat as a plain. “Yes, lady. I told him.”

Renata stepped back without knowing she was doing so. He was very tall and broad, and seemed broader still without the cloaking black of his cassock, which had always made him seem smaller, all shadowed. With him naked to the waist, she now saw the stark lines of muscle in his chest that even fasting could not chase away completely, and the curve of bone beneath skin. He appeared to be only a man, a man in agony, a man who knew he had sinned. “How could you?” she demanded. “I am now to be sent to Genoa, to wed a man old enough to be another grandfather, and I am told the fault lies on  _ you _ .”

He looked very pale. Sweat was budding on his upper lip, and the hand that grasped the whip was trembling. “My sins are many,” he murmured, swaying slightly where he stood. “I do not deny them. Chief among them was… envy, little Rei: envy of di Damerone, envy of his desire for you, envy… and… the sin of lying. Lying to myself. Telling myself that you would prefer di Damerone to be gone, that he not tempt you into sin before his father arrived, that I could gain some meager trust from His Holiness where your affairs were concerned. All for nothing. All for nothing…” The whip tumbled from his loosening fingers and clattered on the floor: he had stood too quickly. Renata forgot her anger as he fell sideways, bracing himself against the altar. 

“You must lie down,” she insisted, reaching for his arm. “You will faint. Cardinal—”

“Do not touch me,” he said in a brittle and shaken voice. “I beg you, lady.”

She dropped her hand at once. “Then let me call a maid, at least: or a guard. You are bleeding badly, and need a physician.”

Solo laughed, a dry, sardonic little sound. “All the healing I need comes from God. No, lady, I do not need a physician. Only—” and he stood straighter, his breast heaving with the effort to breathe— “only help me to my bed. It is on the floor.”

“The floor?” she asked, not understanding as she strode to the door leading to his bedchamber. Once the door had been opened, she saw what he meant: the great soft bed with all its goose-down pillows and silken coverlets and sheets of fine linen was untouched, and a lumpy, ragged pallet of straw-stuffed sackcloth rested at its foot. “You sleep there?” she asked, shocked as she pointed a finger. “On that?”

“Yes.” Solo took a step away from the altar, but without its support staggered and would have fallen, had Renata not dashed to him and borne him up, one hand pressed to his breast and the other gripping his arm. “God help me,” he said grimly, and took a pained breath as she helped him step to the bedchamber. 

“You will not lie on the floor tonight,” she said firmly. “On the bed, on your belly, if you please, Cardinal, and I myself will tend your back. When did you eat last?”

“I do not remember,” he said, and groaned as she lowered him onto the bed, ungracefully lifting his long, heavy legs and pushing him further so that he rested on his front, his bleeding back gleaming in the light from the lamps set about the chamber. “A… week ago, perhaps. Bread only once a day...until then. Water. I must… purify myself. My sins…”

“You must ask me to forgive you, since you cannot ask Pavo, as it is I who has been wronged,” she said firmly. “You will be no use to me or to Grandfather if you are too weak to do your duties. I shall call for food for you. Something simple. I know you like simple food.” Renata stood and wet a cloth in the ewer by the wall and came back, gently laying it across his striped back. Solo did not make a sound, only shut his eyes tightly, a muscle in his jaw rippling beneath the skin. All his ink-dark hair was stuck to his brow and cheek and neck with sweat. She tried not to think of stroking it away.  _ He is a man of God, sworn to service all his life.  _ The signs of that service were visible: his back was marred and lined with scars, some old, some new, but covering him from neck to lower back in a tapestry that spoke of years of self-inflicted penitence.

“Then,” he said quietly, when she had laid the second cloth across his torn back, the blood seeping pink through the linen, “I will beg you for your forgiveness when I am able to kneel without falling to the ground, lady.”

“You may beg it now,” she said imperiously, half-smiling in spite of herself. “After all, I may be married and sent off by the time you recover.”

“Then I beg it now,” he said. “Lady Renata di Palatine, most holy daughter of the Pope, most beloved princess of all Christendom, I have wronged you deeply, and I beg you to forgive me, and if there is any thing I may do to right this wrong, you have only to speak the word, and it will be done: I swear it by the wounds of Christ.”

Coming from a prone man half-sensible with pain and hunger, the words should have been silly, but Renata shivered. “I forgive you, then,” she said softly, lifting the cloth and wetting it again to cool his wound. “And I shall tell you if I find anything to right your wrong towards me. I will not forget your words.”

“Good,” he breathed, eyes slipping shut. “Good. That is… good.”

“Stay awake,” she reminded him, patting his shoulder gently. “Food is coming, you must remember.”

“Food,” he said, and stirred. “Yes.”

Ah, all men were alike, truly, whether a Cardinal or a stableboy. Renata went to the door and called for a page whose knees knocked together at the sight of the Pope’s granddaughter, and ordered him to bring bread and fruit and some simple meat and water, as the Cardinal was not well, and if her hands were stained with blood, well, who would say a word about that?

* * *

Solo sat up, still naked save for the robe cast loosely on his shoulder, and devoured the food like a beast with both hands as Renata busied herself with bandaging his ruined back. The stripes had bled a good deal, but they were not deep, save for one ugly long thing that cut through the meat and thin yellow fat of his back and made Renata feel rather sick to look at, but she knew the art of stitching as well as anyone, and closed the gash left by the whip with silk thread and a needle. The rest were shallow enough to be dealt with by linen bandages and salve.

“Is it done?” he asked, his mouth full of bread. 

“Nearly,” she answered, tying off the second to last stitch. “You ought to keep it clean with cold water until it is knitted, and then I will cut away the thread. Treat it with care.”

“With  _ care _ ,” he said, as if the concept was entirely new to him. “My flesh must be mortified, lady. I must do penance when—”

“Then do penance in a manner that does not burst your stitches,” she said impatiently, and sighed as he went still. “Forgive me, Cardinal. I know that your spiritual matters are your own business. But would not destroying my fine work of art be a sin in and of itself?”

He let out a small breath through his nose that might have been a laugh, if he had not checked it so. “Indeed, lady. I shall take care not to mar your work. Have no fear.” 

“Good,” she said, and tied off the last stitch. “There.  _ Consummatum est.” _

_ “ Factum est, _ ” Solo corrected, and his ears were pink. “You have been very kind to me, and I do not deserve it.”

“When I first entered, I wanted to tear you asunder like a wild dog,” Renata confessed, standing and washing her hands clean of blood in the basin. “I suppose perhaps I still do, but I shall permit you to recover first, else it would not be a fair fight.”

“Indeed not,” he said, tugging the robe up over his bandaged back with some difficulty. “May I sleep now, lady?”

“You may,” she said, heart fluttering strangely at the sight of his large pale hands clutching at the robe. “On one condition: you— you must kiss my ring and call me Rei before I go.”

His dark eyes flickered up to meet hers, his face and body unmoving, and her heart thudded in her breast: perhaps there was some strange French blood in his veins that gave his eyes such an appearance, so hooded that they seemed almost almond-shaped, black in the light of the candles. “Your hand, then,” he said softly, and she extended it, approaching the bed. He took her fingers with utmost gentleness, and she swallowed hard: his hand was so large that her fingers nearly vanished. He brought her hand to his lips, and she felt the warm, damp gust of breath across her knuckles before his lips touched her ring: the ring Grandfather had given her, the onyx one with the crest of their family worked in gold on either side, an iris flower. His mouth was much warmer than she had thought it would be, and soft as silk. Renata caught her breath as he pressed his mouth to her fingers once, then twice, on either side of the ring, and said, “I bid you farewell, Rei.”

_ Rei.  _ The name on his lips did something strange to her belly as it had not done before: she did not pull her hand away from his, and he lowered his head again to press one last kiss on the ring. The strange feeling sank lower, trembling beneath her thighs, swelling, dampening: she took a small breath and stepped back, abashed and confused. “I— I should not tease you so, Cardinal,” she murmured, her fingers still tight about his. She suddenly became aware very strongly that he was half-naked, his bare chest gleaming in the light of the lamps and candles, and she was in her nightgown… that if she wished, she might… she might… 

He took a soft breath and looked away, holding her hand as if he did not know what to do with it anymore. “You must go,” said Solo. “They will be wondering about you.”

“Yes, they will,” Renata said. “Let them wonder.” She reached her other hand out, and in an act so daring she almost shut her eyes against it, she placed the palm of her hand to his long, high-boned cheek, her thumb stroking lightly against the beauty-mark just by his nose. 

His reaction was immediate, and seemed unconscious: he leaned into her touch, eyes closing, lips softly parted as if to kiss her palm… before his eyebrows drew down and all the soft gentleness in his face departed, making it hard and grim once more as he pulled back, his hand grasping her wrist to hold her hand away. “You must go,” he repeated, sounding hoarse. 

Shame flooded her at once and she stepped back, her face burning. “I beg your forgiveness, Cardinal; I do not know what— why—”

He shook his head. “You are young, lady, and have within you all the passion that the young possess.”

“You are not so old,” she said. “But I shall not say anything further, lest I offend you: I have already been too forward.” She dropped a curtsy as best she could in her robe. “Do not lie on your back tonight when you sleep. Good night.”

He looked at her with a gleam in his eye she could not quite decipher. “I am older than you by ten years, my child,” he said. “Say thirty Ave Marias tonight before you sleep as penance. Good night.”

Renata lowered her eyes and went out, letting the door shut quietly behind her. Solo waited until her footsteps had departed before sliding off the bed with some difficulty and making his pained way to the altar in his study, where he knelt, bowing his head, and began to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Renata: someone invent espresso so I can be less depresso
> 
> -The little play in Latin at the end there is a bit of an innuendo. "Consummatum est" can mean "it is consummated" or "it is finished", while the more straightforward "factum est" from Solo means "it is done." 
> 
> -The Palpatine family crest is something totally different out of Legends which is no longer canon... but the "Naboo" symbol is a very stylized iris, which also happens to be the national flower of France (cough). The onyx is a nod to the ring that Dark!Rey wears in TRoS.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the change in the tags!

**THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER**

**ROME, 1479**

  


“Brother Solo,” whispered Brother dal Prato, interrupting Solo’s endless stream of Latin prayers at the altar. “I apologize for this disturbance, but a man has come to see you, and he will not be turned away until he is satisfied.”

Solo kept his eyes closed and finished his prayer, then stood, knees aching from the stone floor. “What man?” he asked, clasping his hands in front of him. At seventeen, he was already towering over most of the other men in the Basilica of Saint Sabina, but he still felt half a child, with hands too large for his body and a pigeon-toed stride that, thankfully, the cassock hid. 

“A nobleman from Genoa, Brother. His clothing is rich and his bearing proud.” Dal Prato’s pale eyes were alight with excitement, or perhaps greed: he was only five years Solo’s elder, and just as devoted to his vows of chastity and piety, but less so to vows of poverty. 

“I will see him,” said Solo, and followed dal Prato down the halls to the offices of the priests, where a man was waiting for them both. 

“Ah, my gratitude, Brother dal Prato,” said the man, and carelessly tossed the other friar a golden ducat: dal Prato’s eyes lit up, and he clutched it tightly in his hand. Somehow, Solo did not think he was considering the food for the poor it might buy. “Brother Solo. How fortunate to find you here.”

Solo did not speak a moment. He was busy looking at the man: a cloth of gold riding cape, a fine blackwork shirt, velvet doublet, ornaments of silver and gold— all served to put a veneer of finery on an elderly face, a hairless head, a scar upon the brow, skin mottled with liver spots, and a pair of palest blue eyes like glass, so hard and cold that Solo fought a shudder at the sight. He reeked of perfumery, but under it there was corruption, whether of the breath or the body he did not know. “I have never had the pleasure of your acquaintance, my lord,” he said politely.

The old face split in a smile Solo did not like the look of. “Ha! As for that, you would never have: I am the Duca di Fumoso, of Genoa.”

Solo kept his face an impassive mask, but memory came back: three years ago, his mother in an uproar over the armies that this very same Duke was raising quietly behind the good Pope’s back, saying nothing good could come of such actions, and she feared an uprising, or worse. “I believe I recall your title,” he said simply.

“Yes, you might: last scion, I hear, of your lady mother’s family.” Di Fumoso smiled again, his cracked old teeth brown and yellow with rot. “A pity: the proud Organa house was unparalleled in splendor in my youth.”

“There is a time to live, and a time to die,” Solo said impassively. “I must be going to prayers soon. What is the matter you came to speak to me about?”

The Duke stroked his chin with a long, thin, spotted finger. “I have need of a priest at my estate in Genoa,” he said. “The last one, sadly, died of old age. I should like to have such an earnest student as yourself close by.”

Solo blinked. “My lord, I am honored, but I am no priest yet, and am still learning: I have yet to finish my training.”

Di Fumoso found that amusing. “Training! Pah. My boy, I could make you a cardinal of the papal college with a snap of my fingers. I have a kinsman among them, and I have friends who have the Pope’s ear, the Pope! Do you think there is anything you will not possess?” He stepped closer, and the stench of him wafted about Solo like a miasma. “Name your price. What do you desire? A palace of your own? The finest wines from vineyards in Florence? Gold? Beautiful women?” The ice-cold eyes flickered up and down Solo’s face as he calculated. “Beautiful men?”

Solo stepped back, aghast at the forthrightness this man showed. “There is nothing I desire beyond remaining here to study theological works,  _ signore _ : to fight heresy and paganism, to lead an ascetic life. You must choose another for your priest. I am not qualified, and I cannot go to Genoa.”

Duca di Fumoso looked as if he had not spoken at all. “You understand,” he said conversationally, “that I am one of the largest benefactors to the Dominican order. Should I choose to withdraw my patronage of Santa Sabina, and should I inform all other benefactors of my choice and urge them to do so, the place will fall into disrepair, the work you have done here will be all forgotten, and the Order itself would collapse without its  _ studium _ . But, as you said, my son, so wisely… a time to live, and a time to die.”

Cold horror filled Solo. “Santa Sabina is a thousand years old,” he said, shocked. “The doors are carved of cypress, showing the oldest symbol of the Crucifixion; you cannot abandon it to disrepair.”

“No?” The old man shrugged. “I expect I can, and I will... unless you swear on the Holy Virgin to come to me the moment you have finished your studies and are made a full priest. If you do not… then alas, all your brothers here will surely be wanderers on the roads of Italy five years hence.”

“But why me?” asked Solo, fighting to keep his emotions in check. “I am the youngest acolyte here: why do you not ask Brother dal Prato to come? He is eager for power, for money, for—”

“Do not question me,” said the Duke sharply. “I have plans for you, young Solo, plans greater than you can imagine. Come to me when you have been ordained, and I will gift this place with gold enough to keep it for a hundred years.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Solo, confused and fighting tears. He did not want to go to this man, to Genoa, to any of it, but he must, else his brothers here suffer; and he was only seventeen, after all, and frightened, and alone. “Yes. I will come. I swear it on the Blessed Virgin, and on— on the blood of Christ.”

“Very good, my boy,” said the Duca di Fumoso, and smiled his rotted smile.

  


* * *

  


**ROME, NOVEMBER 1492**

  


“Lady Renata! You must hold yourself still: the pins will prick you, and then you should get blood on your wedding gown.”

Renata ceased her fidgeting: she did not want to make the poor seamstress’s duty any harder. Her reflection in the mirror was wan and pale: she had not gotten much sunlight in these waning months, and her freckles had nearly vanished. Grandfather said that was a good thing, for the Duca di Fumoso liked fashionable, proper ladies, and fashionable proper ladies did not have freckles. He would arrive tomorrow afternoon to finalize the marriage negotiations, and her new wardrobe and trousseau were already nearly finished: sumptuous dresses, nightgowns, chemises of silk shot through with silver and gold thread, handkerchiefs, hairnets, jewels, slippers, riding boots, cosmetics, robes: everything a Duchessa would want. The silversmiths and goldsmiths of Rome were working night and day to finish jewel-boxes and mirrors; the jewelers were poring over necklaces, pearl strands, rings, bracelets. 

Her dress for tonight was waiting, hung on her wardrobe: there was to be a fine masquerade in the Old Roman fashion, in honor of Saint Catherine, presided over by the Pope himself, and she was to attend costumed as Venus, in a chiton of fine palest blue, with silver ornaments and a paper mask to hold in front of her face. The wedding gown, which was both being pinned to hem and taken in at the waist by the seamstress and her assistant, was pure white and silver silk and tissue, brocade, with a train ten feet long: the seamstress had promised a veil of silk lace broidered with pearls. 

Renata wanted to tear the whole of it off her body and run for the door. “How much longer?” she asked, trying not to fidget too much as the seamstress pinned and pinned. 

“Nearly done, my lady,” she said through a mouthful of pins. “And there! We are finished.” She helped Renata out of the thing and Bambina came bustling to help her back into her dress from the morning. The seamstress took the gown away, and Renata was left alone with Bibi. 

“I suppose that Cardinal Solo is not able to take confessions?” she asked after a moment, fidgeting with her fingers. 

“Now? At this hour? It is hardly noon: he will likely be in the College offices, poring over the accounts for His Holiness. You ought to find another one to confess to: surely one is available.”

“No, only Solo will do. I trust no others, not even deaf old Romano.” Renata tossed her head back and sighed. “Never mind it, Bibi. I shall find him some other time.”

* * *

The feast began with all the dignity that pomp and circumstance allowed: Renata entered on her grandfather’s arm as Venus escorted by Zeus, and was permitted to dance with the masked gentlemen in attendance. She knew some of them: some were cousins or brothers of cardinals, many of them were Roman nobles, and all were in fantastical costumes of tunic, sandals, toga, and wreaths of golden ivy and olive.  _ They all think themselves some hero of Olympus in their own mind, _ she thought bitterly as she danced, masking herself as well as she was able. 

The candles burned, the wine flowed, and very soon the party had become a Bacchanalian revel: Grandfather presided over a court of drunken lechers, and oh, how Renata could see it all now with such clear eyes! The gold was all gilt, the jewels all paste, the people all puppets. She wanted to cry, but she could not cry: Grandfather was watching, and it was too much to hope that he would become insensible with wine: he hardly touched the stuff.

She extricated herself from the grasp of a drunken Satyr and climbed back up to the dais where he sat enthroned. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said dryly. 

“Everyone is very drunk,” she told him, unsure of what to say. 

The Pope seemed to find that amusing. “Of course they are. It is a feast, not Mass. Go and dance.”

She could not say that she was too tired. “Yes, Grandfather,” she murmured, and gulped at a cup of wine at her elbow. It was stronger than she had thought it to be, and she choked. 

“You must not indulge overmuch,” said Sisinnius, looking at her with disapproval. “We expect to present an innocent young maid to the Duca di Fumoso on the morrow, not some soiled chit with drink-sore eyes.”

“What… does the Duke expect?” she asked timidly.

Cold eyes swept across her form. “Silence, chiefest among all. Beyond that, an untouched maidenhead and a fertile womb beyond it. We expect you to deliver on all three counts.”

“As to the fertile womb, I expect the facts of that cannot be delivered until some time has passed,” she said, and bit her tongue as soon as she had said it, but it did her no good: Grandfather’s eyes gleamed in fury and he snatched at her bare upper arm with his hand, twisting cruelly. She did not cry out, but met his eyes:  _ I shall not give him satisfaction! _

“You ought to practice  _ silence _ , my girl,” he said coldly, and his eyes slipped behind her, softening at once into the old benevolent mask as he let her arm go. “Ah, you have another supplicant come to beg a favor.”

She turned to see a man she did not recognize, a man wearing a scarlet tunic and golden toga with a mask wrought to look like a grim, bearded face in front of his own. He bowed and held out his hand. “Might I beg a dance from fair Venus?” he asked.

“You may,” Renata said shortly, and gladly accepted his hand, if only to get away from Grandfather. “You must tell me who you are, however,” she continued as he led her into the line for the dance.

“Is it not clear? I am Vulcan, born so ugly that my fair mother Juno flung me from her sight off Olympus.” He sounded like he might be amused behind the mask. “Fortunately, I became the finest smith in all the world to make up for it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are the twelfth Vulcan I have met tonight, sir. All of you think you are so clever, to disguise yourselves as the husband of Venus, but I have only one arriving on the morrow.”

“You might prefer twelve husbands,” said the man, turning her about slowly, hand to hand as they faced each other in their masks. 

Indignant, Renata drew herself up. “Have a care how you speak!”

“Forgive me. I meant only that no man has all good qualities, therefore one might be handsome, one clever, one kind, one gentle, and so forth: twelve men might serve to make one fine husband as a sum.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, and laughed. “Forgive my hastiness, sir: I have been occupied with thoughts of purity and virtue since my betrothal was set forth, and I must say it is a tender spot.”

“Indeed?” said the man, turning her about again the other way. “Has someone insulted your virtue, then, madam?”

“Not so much— but yes,” she said, frowning as she thought of Grandfather. 

“I have made my lady frown. Forgive me. I will find you some watered wine and something to eat. Will that soothe you?”

“Oh, indeed it shall,” she said eagerly, belly rumbling at the mention of food. He led her away in the clamor of drunken revelers to a table, where he made her a clever little dish of bread and fruit and cheese before handing her a glass of wine and escorting her to the door to the hall. 

“The air is finer out here,” he said by way of explanation. “And it is cool, but the gardens are fine tonight: we might walk together.”

“You are very kind,” she began through a mouth full of bread, and nearly choked as he guided her into a niche quickly and pulled off his mask— it was Pavo di Damerone, and none other! “Pavo!” she gasped, delighted, and nearly dropped her wine. “Whatever are you doing here? They said you had been sent back to Venice!”

“Listen closely,” he said quietly and in a voice so urgent she fell silent at once. “There is a man waiting to speak to you in the gardens. Go quickly, and tell no one I was here in Rome. Do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear: I shall tell nobody, Pavo. Oh, how nice it is to see a friend again!” She kissed his cheek and hurried to the garden, her food and wine forgotten, and as soon as she had stepped out into the moonlight the brisk chill of late fall bit into her bare arms, making her shiver. The trees were almost bare, and clouds scudded across the moon: it seemed a wild place at night, not the carefully grown and cultivated garden she liked to walk in so well.

A shadow was waiting by the marble columns that shadowed the roses in summer. “Lady Renata,” whispered a voice she knew.

“Cardinal Solo?” she breathed back, and hurried to the shadow, shivering as she went. It was dark: she could make out his nose and his hair, and the smell that always followed him: incense, wool, parchment. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “You will catch a cold if you are out here any longer in that. Here.” A soft, warm thing wrapped about her shoulders, put there by large hands, and she clutched it tightly at her throat: it was his cardinal’s cape of silk velvet, still warm from his body. 

“Why are you out here?” she asked. “And why is Pavo di Damerone here?”

“Young di Damerone is, as of last week, the Doge of Venice,” said Solo. “He was elected fairly on the occasion of his father’s demise by the forty-one electors, and his elder brother has gone off to raise an army. Walk with me.” He began to move along the path, and she followed, her slippered feet crunching on the gravel.

“An army for what?” she asked, astonished.

“Nothing that concerns you— at the moment.” Solo paused. “What has your grandfather said to you on the matter of your marriage?”

Renata looked away, cheeks burning. “He said— he said that he and the Duke only had three expectations of me. To be silent, to be a— to be untouched, and— to be fertile.”

Solo let out a very long, low breath that might have been a sigh. “I expect you will find at least one of those expectations a difficult burden to bear.”

Her fist clenched at her side. “If I am to be treated without any respect at all, I  _ shall _ be a burden on this Duke as much as I can be.”

The Cardinal stopped at once and took her by the shoulder, turning her sharply. “No.  _ No _ . You must not displease him.” His hand was trembling, and Renata was taken aback at his sudden change of emotion: this was some fear born of knowledge. “I beg you, lady, if you love life, or anything in this world, do not displease the Duke.”

“You fear him,” she said. “I want to know about the Duca di Fumoso, this man who I am to be wed to: I want to know who and what he is. I know you must know something of him: your actions and remorse toward my plight in the matter say that well enough.”

They stopped by a fountain, alone in the moonlit garden. There was no sound from Cardinal Solo, but after a long moment he said, “You truly wish to know? Ah, you would: no woman likes a shock. Very well. I will tell you. He is a monster; a monster worse than the Doge of Venice ever was or could be, and has no fine, handsome sons from previous marriages for any balm of company. You will live in an ancient villa in the hills without any hint of the luxury you have grown accustomed to until you bear him a son, and after that you may gain the gift of hot water for your bath. When you bear him a second son, you will go to his  _ palazzo _ in the city of Genova, where you will never be seen in public, and after you have, perhaps, borne a daughter— for do not worry, my lady, another playing piece on the great board is always welcome— you will be sent to a nunnery, to live out the rest of your days in silence and piety whether your husband is living or no.”

Renata let go of her own hands: her nails had bit crescents into the flesh. “You cannot be in earnest. My grandfather would never allow—”

“The Pope cares only for how he may advance his own power, my lady,” said Solo, sounding bitterly weary. “All great noblemen do: it is high time you took that lesson to heart.”

She fought tears in her eyes. “So I am to be sent off and bred like a mare, and after I have done that task I am to be sent to a nunnery? There shall be no love for me here, nor in a marriage with this man? Is that the fate you have consigned me to, Cardinal Solo?”

“Yes, though I knew it not,” he said, sounding as if he was in utter misery. “He is desirous of the power the union will bring, and not of you.”

“And how do you know all this?” she demanded.

“Because I was his priest for nigh on five years, lady,” he said tightly. “I spied for him. I knew all the intricate meanings and workings of his household better than my own mother’s. I did things no man should ever do. I was seventeen when I entered his service, and twenty-two when I was released: he presented me to Pope Innocent and had me made Cardinal of the College, and here I have stayed, with his shadow lying on me, as it will until he dies. I never thought di Palatine would become Pope. I expect that is my own sin: to never see what is before my eyes until it is too late.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “Why would you ever be a priest to such a man?” she asked.

“He threatened to cut off his patronage to my Dominican brothers,” Solo said in a sharp tone. “And what would you do, lady, if someone threatened to harm those you loved?”

“I would fight them!” she said hotly. “Tooth and nail!”

He chuckled, sounding tired. “You cannot fight with your hands and teeth in this place. You must fight with time, cleverness, and wisdom. Those must be your weapons.”

Anger filled her. “Thank you, Cardinal, for explaining to me the limitations of my person. I will resign myself to wedding a monster, then, and perhaps cleverness and wisdom will help as I sit in a cold cell in Genoa praying myself to be with child.”

“That is not—” Solo cut himself off, irritated. “I did not mean that. I meant that you must be a step ahead, and plot out the moves: you know the game of chess? It is a Moorish game from Spain. Each piece on the board has moves it is allowed: all are different, and within those moves you must capture the board.”

“I am not a chess piece,” she said. “I am the Lady Renata di Palatine, and I will not give him—” Wild thoughts flew through her mind. “I will  _ not _ give him all he desires,” she spat, helpless. 

“You may have no choice in the matter, lady,” he said, and left her there under the moon, wearing his silk velvet cape, red as blood.

* * *

“The Duca di Fumoso of Genoa!” announced the steward, and Renata sat up as straight and still as she could in her golden silk gown worked with irises, adamant that she would not tremble in the face of her fate. She had spent the night sleepless in her chambers, and not even powder and rouge helped conceal the pallor of her tired face. Grandfather was watching, and she must not disappoint him. 

A man so old and thin that he seemed half a corpse glided into the Sala Regia, robed in rich fabric and draped in traveling cloaks. His face was gaunt and scarred, and spotted with age: he knelt, kissed the Pope’s ring, and smiled, showing broken, yellowed teeth. Renata’s nose wrinkled despite her attempts to keep her face still: he smelt of rot. “I am most honored, Your Holiness,” he was saying smoothly, “to be your guest.”

“The honor is ours,” said Sisinnius, smiling as he stood. “Welcome, friend, to Rome. May I present my granddaughter, Renata di Palatine, the jewel of Rome and treasure of my Papacy?”

She stood, her knees feeling like they would go to water as she curtsied to the Duke. “My lord,” she said, trying to smile. “I welcome you.” That would suffice, she thought, if he liked silence. 

He looked ill-pleased with her anyway. Cold blue eyes slid across her form, giving her the unpleasant sensation of being undressed and pored over, every inch of skin visible and naked. “She does not look strong,” he said to Sisinnius. 

“Oh, she is,” the Pope assured him. “Strong enough to bear sons, at any rate.”

“Is she chaste?” asked di Fumoso, and Renata’s cheeks went scarlet: to ask such a question in front of the whole of the College?

“She is,” said the Pope, sounding slightly irritated. “We may put into our contract of marriage that she is examined before entering into it, if it please you.”

_ Examined? _ Renata’s heart sank. What on earth did they mean to do to her? And she could say nothing, only stand there silent as the two men spoke. 

“Mmm. Yes. I shall want that as a clause in the contract,” said di Fumoso, and eyed her again. “She does not seem overly given to speech. I approve. A woman speaking out of her place is like a wart on a nose.”

Renata sat back down. She might as well be some ornamental lamp, for all he cared.  _ I had never thought to marry such a man. _ Of course, she had expected to be married off to some nobleman for political purpose or gain, as a lady of her status never married for anything else, but she had expected at least someone who might  _ try _ to be polite towards her, to show her respect, to even be friendly:: she had thought that love would follow, after marriage, and that discovering it would be a lovely thing, like a flower opening. This man looked at her with an expression as if he was buying a mangy old dog, a dog that he did not want or need. 

“Then the matter is settled,” said the Pope, smiling. “We shall rewrite the contract. She shall be examined by a physician, with your Grace present, and witnesses, perhaps?”

“Yes, witnesses. If she comes to the marital bed sullied, I will not be pleased,” said di Fumoso coolly.

_ Witnesses? _ Renata wanted to scream: the thought of being prodded at and poked at by anyone in front of people was enough to make her want to shrivel up and wither away, let alone with people watching. There was no hope for it, however: Grandfather was nodding and smiling, and she had no power, nothing at all. 

* * *

Cardinal Solo was at his desk in the treasury, trying to work out how the Vatican would ever pay for a twenty-course wedding feast on top of its debts to Naples, when the scent of tuberose assailed his nose, cutting past the smells of parchment and ink and charcoal. He looked up, surprised, and saw Lady Renata hovering before his desk, her cheeks stained red and her eyes very bright, in her court-dress of golden silk. “My lady,” he greeted her, taken aback, and stood, nearly knocking the chair over. “What brings you here?”

She kept her eyes modestly downcast. “Your Eminence. I seek counsel on a matter that I am troubled by. Perhaps— if you have time?” His peers were watching curiously: it would do no good to be familiar with her. God be thanked, she seemed to understand. “It is urgent, I am afraid: I would not have come and sought you out during your work otherwise.”

“I see,” he said, and nodded, setting his papers aside. “Yes, lady. We may discuss the matter in my office. Follow me.”

She obediently trailed behind him, hands clasped in front of her, and it made him feel ill to see: what had transpired at the Apostolic Court this morning? Di Fumoso was a man of manipulations and flattery when he felt the need for them: she did not look like a woman flattered, but a woman going to the hangman’s noose. 

He opened the door to his private office, a spacious room with not much ornamentation, and indicated a hard, straight-backed chair. “Please sit,” he said, and crossed behind the desk, sitting in his own seat. The desk was piled high with letters he needed to answer: he had not been in here for several days. “What is this matter, lady?”

She took a soft breath and looked directly at him, and he saw that her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “They mean to have me examined before witnesses to ensure my chastity,” she said, and Solo felt as if he had been struck in the belly, all the air leaving him. “I do not know what is expected of me— what they mean to find out by doing such a thing: I am frightened.”

He took a moment to put his thoughts in order. “They mean to see if your maidenhead has been broken, lady,” he said simply, and she went as red as the piping on his cassock. “Doubtless this examination will be done by a physician, and witnessed by both your grandfather and the Duke, and possibly other courtiers or cardinals chosen by both pairs.”

She rose from her seat, the flush draining away to ashen paleness. “And I am not to have a maid with me? Not Bibi?” she demanded. “You mean to say that some old fool will put some instrument inside my privy parts, peering about, to find my maidenhead, in front of my  _ grandfather _ and my future husband, and I am to have no witness on my behalf?”

“It will only take a moment, and then all will be over. Unless— is there cause for concern that your maidenhood is not intact?” he asked. 

“No! Yes! I do not know!” Renata paced, wringing her hands. “Bibi said that— oh, I am being a fool and listening to the maids and other ladies again: I shouldn’t—”

“What did Bambina say?” asked Solo, curious.

“That— oh, there is no use, I shall say it! That often well-bred young ladies have their maidenheads taken by acts such as running, or riding, or exertions such as these, and I do not know if I may count myself among them,” she said miserably, sinking down into her chair again. “Cardinal, is it a sin if you come to a wedding-night so?”

Solo knew he was red to the ears: such things he had never had cause to think about before. “The Bible says nothing about maidenheads,” he said firmly. “Only that the act of fornication is a sin, as is adultery: therefore if you are a true maid, having never known a man, all is well. Can you swear before God you have never known a man’s body so?”

“I do not know what that encompasses, in the practical sense,” she confessed, drawing out a handkerchief from her sleeve and drying her eyes. “I have kissed— oh, one boy in Ostia, so long ago: I was twelve and he had discovered I was a girl and claimed one as payment for not letting my maid find out. Is that carnal knowledge of a man?”

“No,” said Solo, half-relieved. “No. A kiss between children is innocent. What I mean is—” and here he must tread lightly: it would not do for the Pope to find out that he had been detailing all the particulars of fornication to his granddaughter, “an act that ought to... result in childbearing, lady. Surely you would know if you had ever engaged in such an act?”

Renata blushed. “You mean— lying together, without clothing, in a bed?” she stammered. 

“And… the act itself,” he pressed, taken aback at her bewilderment. “Of… intercourse, between the… privy areas of the body: of a man’s body to a woman’s.”

“Ah!” she said in confusion. “But how can two  _ bodies _ have a privy connection?”

Solo immediately understood the awful truth: nobody had ever told her such things, nobody had warned her of the marriage bed, nobody had prepared her at all. It must be his task, then, and may God help him. Undaunted and crimson-eared, he pressed on. “God formed man and woman, lady: when their privy parts are joined in a fleshly manner, a child is conceived and born of that joining. The joining itself is the act we call intercourse: outside the marriage-bed this is fornication or adultery. Do you understand more clearly now?”

Renata went still as stone, pale as a ghost: her lips were parted and moved slightly as she stared at him in shock and horror. “You are mocking me,” she said, hardly moving. “ _ Privy parts _ joining: I have never heard such a thing in all my life.”

“I assure you I do not mock you,” he said, his heart torn for this poor girl. 

“But Bibi said—” and Renata fell silent, her mind working back to a conversation half-forgot, about di Damerone and gentleness and marital beds. “Oh, God help me,” she said abruptly, covering her face with her hands. “I thought Bibi had only meant she had slept in the same bed as di Damerone, and he had perhaps kissed her: I did not know— _ privy parts joining, _ oh, Heaven help me. You cannot mean I am expected to see that awful old Duke without his clothes, and then— but how on earth do the parts  _ join? _ That is, I have seen little boys without their clothes, and parts cannot join any other way than— than perhaps an ear might press to an ear. Oh, Cardinal, I am sorry, for I cannot ask you: you have taken vows and do not know the answer any more than I do.”

He fought to keep his face grave: he must not be uncouth or crude. “I do know,” he managed, his voice coming out stiffly. “The body of a man— changes, lady, when… circumstances conducive to intercourse present themselves: perhaps he thinks of his wife half-dressed, or— or is entranced by her shapely calf, or breast. His body rouses to this vision or thought, and this changes the shape and form of his privy part, so that it might… enter the body of his wife.”

“Enter the body,” she squeaked, horrified. “And that— ah! I see now!” Her whole tone changed to one of awe. “The body, meaning, the lady’s privy parts, and that is where my maidenhead is: the entering of the man’s part casts it aside like— oh, a curtain, perhaps, in a door, and then it is no more, and  _ that _ is the loss of virginity, not riding a horse or tumbling down hills.” She clapped her hands, and paused, staring at Solo with great round eyes. “But how on earth does the man’s part change?” she asked, curiosity overcoming her whole face. “That is: in what fashion? I have seen statues carved of nude men, but—”

Solo could hardly speak. He rose, went to his shelf, and found his copy of Ovid’s  _ Fasti _ , turning the page to find what he sought. Once he had found the illustration he wanted, he turned it wordlessly, handing it to Renata, who took the volume in both hands and stared, her cheeks turning as red as apples. “There,” he said. “That is… exaggerated somewhat, on account of the myth, but there is Priapus and the nymph Lotis, and there is his… privy member, in the form ready for intercourse.”

Renata looked at the drawing, then at him, then at the drawing. Her lips opened and closed, and she stole one more look at him before swallowing hard. “ _ How _ … exaggerated?” she asked.

He looked down at the page: ah, no wonder she was so shocked. Poor Priapus looked as if his member was as long as his arm. “A good deal. I believe most men are only as long as a hand's span. It varies, of course, depending on the man.”

“And does the woman’s body change to another form, too?” she asked, peering down suspiciously at the illustrated page. “Lotis sleeps here... Ah, but all the parts of a woman are inside, not out: I had forgot.”

Solo swallowed: his mouth had become very dry. “It is said that the body of the woman changes also, in… readiness to receive the privy member of the man.”

“Oh? How does  _ it _ change?” 

He closed his eyes. _Blessed Lord, give me strength_. “The… flesh of the woman, ah, becomes—dampened, for ease of passage, and as blood rises to the cheeks when one is contrite, so blood flows to the privy area when one is… roused to the bed.”

Renata looked stricken. “Oh,” she said, as if realizing something to herself, and looked back up at him. “And that feeling— when it is experienced outside the marriage bed: is that a sin? Is it lust?”

Solo could hardly fault her for such feelings. “If you have felt such things, surely you did not understand what they signified. I shall not count it as a sin that you must confess: Pavo di Damerone would capture any maid’s heart.”

“Pavo?” she asked, sounding puzzled. “Ah, yes, I suppose so.”

He frowned. “Not di Damerone, then: whoever has influenced you to feel such things?”

“No,” said Renata, glancing at him. “No, not him. But, Cardinal, the question still remains that I may not be— intact, and— Grandfather will be furious if I am not,” she finished.

Solo hardly dared to breathe for the thing he thought: it was treason, it would get him killed, and he said it anyway. “If you are not a maid in body, then the marriage might be called off, and the engagement broken,” he said.

“Oh,” she said in a very different tone, and looked up. “Bibi knows a woman who knows all manner of things about ladies and— and babies, and things like that: she might come and see me, and tell me if it is so.”

“And if you are a maid still?”

“Then I shall not let him have the satisfaction of taking it from me,” she said, and in that moment he could see that she had all that great di Palatine steel in her spirit. “He sat in the _Sala Regia_ and spoke about me like I was an animal: I want him shamed, even if it means I am also disgraced.”

“Your grandfather—” he began, stunned.

“What will he do?” she demanded, fire in her eyes. “Will he beat me? He has done it before. Will he shut me up in my rooms? Let him do it. He cares nothing for me at all: I see that now. Nobody in this world might have a true care for me, but it does not matter. I will not bend to this man, not even if God Himself came down from Heaven and commanded it!”

Solo stood all at once, his heart beating wildly. “I will find that woman for you this very day,” he said. “I will find her, and bring her to you, and if you should need counsel at all after anything you discover, you have only to ask, lady, and I will give it willingly.”

“Thank you, Cardinal,” she said, and sighed deeply, pressing her hands together. “For that, and for this: I know it was not easy to speak of such things so frankly. May I kiss your ring before I go?”

He wordlessly held out his hand, and she took it (how small her fingers were!) and bent over his fingers, her lips pressed to the great ruby in his ring. Her breath drifted across his fingers, and Solo bit the inside of his cheek— but then she was rising again, curtsying, and leaving his office as quietly as she had come.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tag changes. Things get a bit, well. Medieval. 
> 
> Posting schedule has changed to every Sunday and Thursday since I'm under *~quarantine~* and figured y'all need something to get through this as much as I do. HAVE FUN.

Renata’s rooms were dimly lit with the warm, golden glow of the lamps and candles set by her bed. She waited in her night-things, a robe cast about her to ward off the chill of the night, and paced, Bibi at her side trying to be as consoling as possible.

“What if they could not come through the back ways?” Renata whispered, agonizing. “They are late, Bibi. He was supposed to bring her half an hour ago. What if someone caught them? What if they have already killed the Cardinal and they are coming even now to kill _me?_ ”

“Do not worry yourself, lady,” said Bibi patiently. “The Duke sleeps: I have it on good faith from his pages. The Pope sleeps as well: it is late.”

“Oh, I cannot bear it,” said Renata, sitting down again. “Will it hurt? To be examined?”

“I should think not, lady,” said Bibi. “Hush, do you hear the footsteps?”

Renata sprang up at once as the maid rushed to the outer door and exchanged low words with someone unseen, then came back in with Cardinal Solo (wearing a rough black cassock like an ordinary priest, not a Cardinal: he had disguised himself) and a woman, middle-aged, with a creased, gentle face and silver in her dark hair, wearing a robe. “Are you the lady?” she asked quickly, nerves too frayed to be polite.

“I am no lady,” said the woman, smiling. “I am Cerva, and Cerva is me: I help the women with their childbearing, and all manner of ailments pertaining to ladies, and I have done so for thirty years. What ails you, lady…?”

“You may call her Rei,” said the Cardinal, stern and quiet behind the woman.

“Yes, call me so,” said Renata, and tried to keep her wits about her. “I have need of— that is, I need to know if my m-maidenhead is still intact, you see.”

“Ah,” said Cerva, understandingly. “Nerves striking you before a wedding night, Rei? Have no fear. I will see quickly, and you will have no pain. Bibi, my girl, bring a lamp: you, priest, you help the girl to a table, and have her lie down.” She began rummaging through her basket, and Renata, heart pounding, accepted Solo’s hand as she stepped up on the seat of a chair and laid herself out flat on her back on the dining-table. 

Solo looked down at Renata without much expression on his face, and tightened his hand about her fingers so gently and quickly that she thought she might have imagined it before he turned away, watching Bibi and Cerva set a light at her feet. Solo’s hand did not leave hers, and she was grateful to have something to hold to as Cerva instructed her to raise her legs, bend her knees, hold them open: then a gentle finger, slick with oil, nudged between her legs. She stiffened at the strange, intrusive sensation, and Solo noticed at once, turning to look at Cerva: thank Heaven his view was blocked by the robe across her knees. “You are hurting her,” he said darkly.

“It does not _hurt_ ,” Renata said, “only… it feels odd, is all,” and Cerva muttered something under her breath, prodding, gentle, careful. It truly did not hurt, and Renata blinked in surprise as the finger withdrew and she sat up, feeling slightly dizzy. “So?” she asked, belly fluttering.

“Oh, you are yet intact,” said Cerva, wiping her hands on her robe. “Intact as any maid could ask to be.”

Her heart sank. “That is… good news,” she said brightly, trying to sound relieved as Bibi paid the woman a gold ducat.

Solo looked from her to Cerva, and bent to her ear. “She might do you a service and break your maidenhead, if you still desire—”

“No,” said Renata, pale, and took her hand out of his. “No, that is not— no.” Then she spoke aloud, addressing the lady. “Thank you, Cerva: you are a good woman. Bibi, see her out, please.”

When the two women had gone, Renata climbed down off the table and turned to Solo. “I have not changed my mind about shaming him,” she said quickly. Solo just looked at her impassively, with his face as severe and grim as ever. “You said that if there was anything you might do to account for the grave sin you committed against me when you had di Damerone sent from Rome.”

A muscle under the skin of his eye flickered, twitched like a candle flame. “I did,” he said.

“And now I know the thing that I desire you to do for me,” she said very quickly. “Cardinal. I want you— I want you to— to deprive me of my maidenhead. With your hands: then you are not committing any sins of lust with your—”

Solo made a sound as if all the breath of life in his body had left him at once. “God in Heaven,” he said, white as bone in the lamplight. “You cannot be in earnest.”

“But I am,” she insisted. “If that woman could use her hands to look at me and it not be a sin, then I do not see why you could not do the same.”

Solo stepped away from her, his face shadowed again, masked by the dark. “That is because she holds no capacity for— for lust toward the body she touches, desire toward the flesh: it is not the same, it is _not_ , and I will not—”

“Lust?” said Renata, hands trembling at her sides. “ _Desire?_ What do you know of desire? You are sworn to vows of chastity, sir, of holiness and asceticism: your burden, you told me—”

“Yes, my burden,” he snapped, coming back into the light. He looked half-mad: his hair in disarray, his eyes gone black in his pale long face. “My burden was following a life of service: now it seems that God has chosen another one for me— the burden of being tormented night and day by a woman I can never have, or touch, or love, and now she _asks_ me to touch her and it will break my very soul!” He fell to his knees, head bent, and covered his eyes with his hands, his shoulders heaving with some great suppressed emotion.

Renata was silent, shocked. All this time he had desired her; been tempted by her? “I did not know,” she whispered, feeling very small. “Forgive me. I did not know.” 

He raised his head, and she saw tears on his face. “And now you do,” he said dully. “You will no doubt call the guard: you have trusted me wholly and I have betrayed your trust twice— once for envy and now for lust.”

“I shall do no such thing,” she said. “You have not betrayed me yet. You would only do so if you refused to help me, and to help the downtrodden is a righteous thing, so by doing this thing I ask of you, you would be doing good, not sinning.”

He wiped his wet cheeks. “You should have been a student of law,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the hint of a smile. 

“I am right,” she insisted. “As long as you act without sin in your heart, then there can be no true sin.”

Solo’s dark eyes found hers. “Asking me to touch you without lust, lady, is like asking for snow without winter,” he said, sounding broken. 

“Then— then do penitence after, if you must,” she said impatiently. “But I beg of you to do this thing for me. You promised. You swore on Christ’s blood.”

He closed his eyes, as if he was praying: his lips moved soundlessly, and Renata waited. “ _Deus auxilium mihi,”_ he said at last, opening his eyes. “God help us both. Yes. I will do it.”

“Good,” she said, heart pounding. “Quick, get to my bedchamber and hide in the wardrobe: Bibi shall be back any moment.”

* * *

Once Bibi had stoked the fire and at last gone to bed, drawing the curtains and barring the doors, Renata slipped from her bed and opened the wardrobe, smiling at the sight of Solo pressed into her fine silk gowns, still in his roughspun cassock. “I am sorry, it must have been stuffy,” she said by way of apology as he stepped down to the floor. “Would you— you do not drink wine: water?”

He gave her a long look. “Wine, I think, tonight,” he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat.

Renata stepped over to the table and poured a glass: it was rather a nice change to be serving instead of served for once. She brought him the wine and he gulped it down in two swallows, setting the cup aside and eyeing her with some trepidation. Why on earth was he looking at her so? Surely the act of losing a maidenhead could be done simply with a finger: he looked as if he was dreading every moment of it. “Are you…” Renata trailed off. She could find no words.

Solo sighed. “There is no use in procrastinating, I suppose. Come. Sit on the bed.”

She obeyed him, going to the bed, and he fetched a linen towel from the cupboard, spreading it out with care before nodding at her to sit. Renata sat, slightly nervous, and began to pull her nightgown up, to allow him—”

“Wait,” he said, and gave her a look that made her let go of the filmy silk at once. Solo knelt between her feet, and took one of her ankles in his hands, the thumb caressing the fine bone, then upward, traveling along the curve of her calf. “If I am to do penitence for the sins I am about to commit,” he said, in a voice gone rough, “then may I do such sins as to make me the Devil, and such penitence as to make me a saint.”

Her belly warmed and she gasped a little: heat was rushing through her like a flood, blooming low and warm between her thighs,and now she knew what that feeling was, and what it signified. “C-Cardinal—”

“You must not call me that,” he said darkly, his other hand caressing her knee. “It will only serve to remind me that doing this thing is against my vows.”

“Beniamino, then,” she gasped, and his hand tightened: a soft breath of warm air brushed against her thigh, the slip of silk over skin as he sighed.

“I have never told you my name,” he said. “Have I?”

“I remembered it,” Renata whispered, “from the day you met me in the _Sala Regia_ : now please, my body— it is doing that _thing_ you told me of, and I do not know how to make it stop.”

His mouth found her thigh, the wine-stained lips trembling just above her skin, brushing the soft hair there. “I know what will stop it. Is it so unbearable, Rei? Can you not stand it a few moments more?”

 _He called me Rei._ She bit into her bottom lip, squirming as the urge to touch herself with her own hands grew. “I— I do not know: when I felt it before, you were kissing my ring, but it was only in passing—”

“I?” he asked, incredulous, and lifted his head to look at her. “You mean to say that it was _I_ who had such an effect on you, and not—”

“Not Damerone,” she said, wriggling as his other hand inched higher. “No, not di Damerone: you, _you_ , it was ever— you—”

He made a broken little sound and pushed the rest of the nightgown off her body, away from her privy parts, and she wanted to cover herself, but he was looking with such amazement that she could not do it. “Beautiful,” he murmured, stroking his fingers clumsily through the fine, soft hair below her navel, the thicker, glossier curls down between her thighs. “Truly, God made you in His own image. And here…”

Renata stopped herself from crying out in surprise as his fingers delved beneath the curls and passed over something beneath her skin: when touched, it felt as if lightning had coursed through her belly, and the nerves in her legs went to fire. “Oh— what was _that_?” she gasped when she could speak again.

“Where?” he asked, bewildered, and went searching with his fingers until he found it again and pressed lightly, and her back arched like a cat as _feeling_ coursed through her, feeling like nothing she had ever felt. She cried out, stifling her noises with a hand, and nearly kicked Solo in the chest. 

“Again,” she panted, when she could speak. He was staring at her in open-mouthed astonishment, his hand resting on her thigh. “ _Again_ , I said: if ever you desired me, touch me like that just there again—”

Solo pushed against the spot lightly once more with his thumb, and Renata stopped herself from crying out this time, ready for it: she trembled and shook and her muscles all went taut from head to toe as he whispered soft words of encouragement, whispered _Rei_ as he used his hand in a gentle rhythm _:_ she strained against some unseen hurdle she must get over, must surpass: something was building within her, something _must_ —

She came crashing down in waves of sensation, moaning as Solo’s hand went still on her thigh again, and her whole body felt warm and tired and very, very pleasant. He was still speaking gently, the thumb of his other hand stroking the skin below her navel, and she roused enough to manage a sheepish smile. “I am afraid that was— not dignified,” she said, flustered at her own body’s actions: what on earth had that been? Wanton, and strange, and loud: everything she had been warned against being.

But Solo looked as if he had just seen Saint Peter descend into his chapel and hand him the keys to Heaven: entirely transformed with wonder. “I would see it again,” he said, and his fingers went directly to the place he now knew better than any other on her body, and she gasped a little: it was more sensitive, and almost hurt now to be touched so. 

“Perhaps— later,” she demurred, and he nodded. “We— we must not forget the purpose here.”

“Ah,” said Solo, and lifted his hands, plucking at the silk. “Then you must sit on the towel and not your fine nightgown: there will likely be some blood, and we must take care.”

Renata moved the gown aside and changed her position so that the nightgown covered only the top half of her body, leaving her bottom half bare and waiting on the linen. “And now?” she ventured to ask, some nervousness returning.

“And now,” he echoed, still kneeling between her legs. One large, broad hand stroked between her thighs, a thick, blunt finger shaking the smallest bit as it slipped between flesh that was still slick from oil, slick from her own desire, and then he sighed. “Ah. There it is,” Solo said, his finger resting lightly at some unseen, but not unfelt, barrier.

Renata swallowed hard and met his eyes, saw the unspoken question there. “Do it,” she commanded, and he nodded once, his jaw set, and pushed. She yelped in surprise: it did not hurt, but felt like something tearing, something small and insignificant, and as he pulled his hand away she saw a little blood staining the skin. Tears filled her eyes: so that was all it had taken, and now he would leave her— 

Solo stared at his hand, and at her. “I have hurt you,” he said tightly. “Oh, God help me.”

“It is not bad,” she managed, wiping her eyes, “only, only— well, I was thinking about how I did not want you to go, now that you have done it.”

“You—” His eyes widened, and he came back, touching her with the delicacy only a very large man ever possesses: the carefulness borne of the knowledge that within his hands rest the power to hurt. The pads of his fingers trailed up her thighs, stroking gently: Renata caught her lip between her teeth and sighed as he lightly passed over that particular place that gave her such pleasure, then delved once more into the mystery of her body. “You are… very small,” he breathed, and she clutched the edge of the bed, the towel of linen. 

“Beniamino,” she said as quietly as she could, and he closed his eyes, savoring it: her lips speaking his name. His finger slipped in, and out; in, and out, and he added his middle finger after a moment, stretching her wider. Renata whimpered at the sensation: it was so entirely unlike anything she had ever felt before, this drag and push of flesh on flesh, and Solo was trying things, new things, and watching her to see what it did.Twisting his fingers felt strange and new, but it led nowhere, so he left that alone: he tried spreading them apart, to no avail— then he crooked them, as if motioning her to come closer from inside, and that felt so good that she almost jumped off the towel. He kept her in place with his other arm, the rough fabric scratching her bare legs, and repeated the action, watching her carefully. “Oh— oh, that is— _good,_ Benia— _Ben—_ ”

“Rei,” he muttered, hand moving inside her. “Oh, Rei, Rei, I would give you everything, _everything_ …”

“ _Please_ ,” she begged, writhing on the edge of the bed, “please, Ben—”

He brought her to a second frenzy of sensation, and she clung to the bed, shuddering as it washed over her once more and receded, like the waves on the seaside at Ostia. When she had stopped trembling, Solo took his hand away and carefully wiped it clean on the linen towel, his eyes downcast and his solemn, dour expression back in place. “There, lady. Have you any pain?”

“No,” she answered, looking down between her legs. There were faint traces of blood on the linen, but nothing like she had expected, and only a small burning sensation somewhere inside that was already fading. “I have been pinked, but there is no injury.”

“Ah,” said Solo. “You ought to burn the towel. It will not do to have a maid see it. And have a care as to your body: you may bleed for a few minutes more, or days.”

She flushed. “I have linen for my courses: I will use it.” Oh, how she wanted to draw him close, to embrace him; but he was standing, turning away from her. “You— you will have to be quiet when you depart,” she said, standing and picking up the towel. Her parts were sore, but not unbearably so. 

He nodded shortly, his face as unreadable as a blank page. “I bid you a good night, lady.”

“Good night, Cardinal,” she said, and he bowed, then left her chambers. Renata hesitated for the briefest of moments, looking at the door, then took the towel to the fire, which was blazing merrily, and put the cloth on the logs, watching the evidence of her deceit go up in smoke and flame.

* * *

The next week was spent in devising the most entertaining merriments Renata could think of to amuse the Duca di Fumoso, who refused to be amused at anything, save for when a starving dog fought another dog to the death over a bone as they rode through the streets of Rome: oh, how he laughed at that as Renata hid her eyes in horror. “You must gain a stronger stomach for such things,” he told her as they passed through the squares. “I will not tolerate weakness in a Duchessa.”

“Yes, my lord,” she was forced to say, and rode on at his side, tears in her eyes. 

Her only solace came at Confession, which she devoutly sought out every day from Cardinal Solo, and that hour was as precious to her as anything ever was. He whispered consolations, prayed with her, and promised to pray for her, and she always left with her head higher and her heart more resolved that she would see this thing to its bitter end. And at night, if she dreamed of his hands, his mouth, his strong arms: was that a sin? No, she would not confess those thoughts to him: they were too dear to her to be parted with, even lifted off her soul and sent to God. She even allowed herself to think of the time she had seen his naked breast, and treasured the memory: she thought of seeing him so again, and when she did her belly and thigh grew warm with excitement. _Beniamino,_ she breathed to herself, alone in bed, dreaming of impossible things. _Beniamino._

Bibi prattled on cheerfully about all manner of things: which guards she had made friends with (one named Pinno was her special friend, but she would not tell Renata why, and only laughed and hid her smile away) and which maids were quarrelling with which pages and why. It entertained her greatly to cast smiles at the servants and watch them smile back shyly: soon she knew everyone’s name from the scullery-maids to the Vatican guards who stood watch in the _Sala Regia._

At last, however, Grandfather caught her in the halls, and smiled. “Our dear little Renata,” he said. “We have good news. Your examination, as demanded by the Duke, shall take place on the morrow, at ten in the morning. You will be present in the Sala Regia.”

Her throat tightened. “I see. How many witnesses to this examination, Grandfather?”

“The Duke demands every Cardinal in the College be a witness.”

Renata kept her face serene and calm despite the emotion that wanted to burst from her throat. “I have heard tell, Holy Grandfather, from my maids and other ladies in the court, that a noblewoman might have no maidenhead from riding horses, or dancing. Is it true?”

He stopped short in his tracks. “Who has been saying such things to you?” he demanded.

“Oh, nobody, really: I think all the women who have ever spoken to me have some opinion on the matter of maidenheads, and since it was spoken of so outrightly in court, everyone must needs tell me something or other about the subject. Lady Falena said that her cousin went to her marriage-bed as virgin as a nun, and yet there was no blood, and two of my maids said they broke theirs climbing a fence in their youth.” Renata kept her face as innocently open as she could. “I hope mine is still there, Holy Grandfather.”

His hand gripped her arm above the elbow. “Have you reason to believe it is not?” he hissed.

“Of course not,” she said, unperturbed as still water. “I only wondered, because I did ride horses in Ostia, and climbed things, and ran: they said—”

“You will not speak of it,” he said, dropping her arm. “We know you are yet a maid: your bearing and innocence, not to mention your gullibility, speak on that matter for themselves. You will not be found wanting at this examination: all that talk the maids have filled your ears with is mere excuse for fornication. Any physician may tell you so.”

“Yes, Holy Grandfather,” she said, and looked at the floor. 

* * *

The Sala Regia was quiet, composed: every Cardinal in the College had dutifully attended, and di Fumoso sat on a seat prepared just for him, his cold eyes narrowed as he watched Renata di Palatine, in her second-best gown of silver brocade, cross to the platform that had been brought in for her to lie on. The physician, a black-gowned man with a bag of instruments, came in, bowed to the Pope, kissed his ring, and turned to the girl, who sat with no guile in her eyes at all, looking up at everyone watching with a tremulous expression. 

The one blot in the sea of red was Cardinal Solo. Di Fumoso almost smiled to see the boy here: who would have thought he would ever make something of himself? After that filthy business in Genoa with those Hebrews, he had let the boy off the hook and sent him back to Rome, knowing full well his darkest secret, and knowing that any whisper of betrayal would send it to his darling mother. Ah, how di Fumoso loved the power that secrets held! Webs on webs on webs, and now he would possess di Palatine’s granddaughter, the jewel of Christendom, on whose hand hinged all the power behind the throne of Saint Peter. She seemed a blanched, milktoast little thing to him: no strength of will to speak of. He liked that in those he held power over.

The girl lay down as instructed and held her knees apart, perfectly compliant as the physician bent to peer within. Nobody in the Sala Regia could really see much, owing to the man’s shoulders, but everyone heard Lady Renata’s little cry of pain as he did something abrupt with his hand. Two red-robed Cardinals even made small expressions, as if they sympathized with her: di Fumoso noted that. She was liked in this court, the little _principessa._

The physician turned around and faced the Pope, and immediately di Fumoso knew at once what the man would say, his face the color of whey. “Your Holiness,” he said, knees nearly knocking together.

“What? Out with it, fool man,” said di Palatine irritably.

“There is no maidenhead,” said the physician.

The Court erupted. Di Fumoso saw Renata sit up in a cascade of rumpled skirts, bewilderment written across every line of her face, not shame: di Palatine leapt off the throne, stormed down to the platform, and grasped the physician by the throat as the Cardinals all burst out of their seats. “You would lie to us?” he bellowed. “To the _Pope?_ ”

“It is no lie!” gasped the man, scrabbling at his hand. “She has none: I know my business, I have done this for many noblemen across Rome!”

Di Palatine let go of his throat and turned his baleful eye on Renata, who still sat as if stunned, not understanding. “You have played the _whore_!” he roared, and bore down on her like a white-and-scarlet storm, bringing his ringed hand down across her cheek with a slap that split her lip and sent the girl tumbling off the platform. Di Fumoso sat and seethed: he had demanded the girl be examined, and now di Palatine was shamed. It was still not enough to soothe the sting of humiliation. 

A guard came running to help the girl up, and di Palatine struck him with his walnut walking-stick, sending him stepping back, arms raised to protect his face. “Back, you simpering idiot! We will deal with our slut of a granddaughter ourselves!”

“Your Holiness,” said a low, deep voice, and di Fumoso looked up to see, of all people, Cardinal Solo. He looked entirely composed, in his black cassock: not a hint of any emotion played on that long, strange face. “If I may offer a viewpoint on the matter?” Di Fumoso considered: it had been years since he had laid eyes on the boy, and he had grown into a broad, tall man with an inscrutable face.

Di Palatine pointed his stick. “Speak now, and speak quickly.”

“It is known that physical activity might break a maidenhead,” he said calmly. Renata sat up, dazed, blood welling from her mouth. “The activities that young noble women are like to engage in, such as riding, dancing— these often serve to take away the membrane there.”

The Pope was crimson with fury. “These are women’s tales: we will not hear them or give them credence in this Court.”

“Your Holiness, I have seen such things,” the physician began, but cringed back when the Pope whirled on him. 

“I do not care what some girl has fooled you into believing,” he snarled. “She is not intact.”

“This,” said di Fumoso, rising from his seat, “breaks our agreement, Sisinnius.”

“Surely if she is still a maid she might swear an oath before the Court,” said Cardinal Orgoglio, stroking his chin. “A holy oath on her very soul.”

“On her soul,” repeated the Pope, and he gave Renata a long look. “Yes. Get up at once, Renata, and wipe that blood off your mouth. Cardinal Solo, you are her confessor: has this woman ever confessed to you the sins of fornication?”

Solo blinked once, his face impassive as granite as Renata got to her feet, swaying slightly. “Never, your Holiness,” he said. “Not once. She is so innocent that she did not know the machinations by which conception of a child is done: she thought a kiss between children was carnal knowledge, and confessed that sin to me on one occasion: she committed it at the age of twelve.”

Someone laughed. Renata went as red as blood and hid her face, trembling with silent sobs. Di Fumoso turned to look at the Pope, disgusted. “You seek to foist some idiot child off onto me? Onto Genoa?”

Di Palatine went purple. “She is _innocent,_ Duca, not stupid—”

“Innocent! A moment ago you were calling her a whore in front of the College of Cardinals and the whole of the Apostolic Court! It seems we have no agreement at all: I desire a pliable, young, fertile wife with a maidenhead and you have not held up your end of the bargain. Meanwhile, the new Doge of Venice, di Damerone, builds his forces, and you shall have no army to answer unless I am given what I ask.”

Di Palatine whirled on Solo. “Make her swear she is virgin,” he hissed. “Now.”

The Duke’s old face curled in a leer. “I care nothing for oaths. I care for what eyes can see, what the ear can hear: she is not a maid, and I will not have her, your Holiness.”

The Pope went an ugly shade of puce and nearly dropped his stick. “Then leave this Court at once,” he snarled. “Get out of our sight: we shall have no further dealings with you.”

“Gladly,” said di Fumoso in the coldest tones he could summon, and went for the door. 

* * *

As soon as the great carved doors had shut behind the Duca di Fumoso, the walnut stick came whistling down and cracked across Renata’s shoulder. She cried out and fell, and the Pope raised the stick again, bringing it down—

— and it landed with a smack into Cardinal Solo’s outstretched palm, the fingers gripping it. “No, your Holiness,” he said in a low voice as Renata wept. “The girl has suffered enough for one day.”

“And you think yourself her protector, do you?” bellowed Sissinius, yanking the cane back. “You, most holy and pious of all Cardinals, you who think yourself above them all? You dare to defy us?”

Solo was undaunted. “I protect the downtrodden: I am a Christian, your Holiness. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy.”

“Mercy! Mercy?” The Pope was nearly frothing at the mouth with rage. “So you mean that there shall be some future event, do you, where you expect that we will not be shown mercy? You, you who are in league with your whore French mother, who even now raises money for a force to ride to Rome itself?”

“I have not seen my mother in a long time,” said Solo evenly. “Your Holiness doubtless knows more of her actions than I.”

His impassivity seemed only to infuriate Sisinnius more: he whirled about and shouted “Bring a whip!” to the guard who had stepped forth to help Renata. He bolted for the door, seemingly glad of the excuse to leave the room. Then the Pope turned back to Solo. “You can beat the girl yourself, then, for your defiance and for her whoring.”

Solo went white, and Renata jerked up to her knees. “Holy Grandfather,” she began, the first time she had dared speak during the whole ordeal, “I beg you: Cardinal Solo knows I am innocent of any fornication: I have never even seen a man without his clothes, nor have I joined my parts to a man’s: I swear it on my eternal soul!”

“You have cost us an alliance!” he roared, furious. “Every Cardinal here shall see what awaits the fool who dares to defy us.”

The guard came back in with the whip, but his face went ashen under its dark color as he surveyed the scene: Renata kneeling on the floor in tears, Cardinal Solo standing over her, the Pope with a hand outstretched. “Holiness…” he began, hesitant.

“If you are about to defy us along with the rest, Pinno, we shall have you flogged,” snapped the Pope, and poor Pinno immediately handed Solo the whip and retreated to his place along the wall. “Beat her, Cardinal. We want her blood spilled.”

Solo’s hand curled tightly around the whip, and his lips worked, twitching. “Yes, your Holiness,” he said, seeing no way out of this, and bent, giving Renata his hand. “Up, child,” he said softly. “Kneel at the table.”

“Cardinal,” she said, getting to her feet painfully, “I beg you to forgive me if I cry out: I do not mean to make it more of a burden for you.”

That elicited a murmur of sympathy from the College, including even Orgoglio, who looked as if he was not sure of himself anymore. To beat a defenseless woman who had sworn her purity on her immortal soul? Unthinkable. Solo guided her to the platform, and she knelt, stretching her arms up and out, holding to the wood. He crossed himself, the whip still in his left hand, then moved it to his right, taking a few paces back and shaking out the whip, feeling the heft of it in his palm, the length, the weight. 

“Surely,” said the Pope, bright-eyed and cruel and honed to a point again, “this shall be no great effort for Cardinal Solo, who dealt so with the Jews in Genoa for cheating the Duca di Fumoso.”

Solo made a noise, whether of agony or rage nobody could tell, and then the whip came down across Renata’s slender back. It split the fine silk of her gown and the chemise beneath it, but she did not cry out, only endured it. Cardinal Solo drew his hand back again and brought it down a second time: that one ruined the sleeve and bodice. The third lash bit her skin, and at that she yelped like a kicked dog, shuddering as blood welled along the bright red lash-mark. 

Solo stopped and looked at the Pope, as if for some sign. “There is her blood, Holiness, spilled as you desired.”

Sisinnius turned and sat on his throne. “We are not satisfied. Again.”

Solo turned back, pale and gaunt as he had ever looked, and brought the whip down once more, opening a new gash. Renata wailed again, but bent her head, shuddering against the next few blows as her skin was laid bare, open and raw, and hot blood seeped down into her gown, staining it scarlet. She did not cry aloud anymore, not even when the tip of the lash caught her upper arm, bare from her torn and ruined sleeve, and left a welling cut there in the tender flesh.

“Enough,” said Orgoglio, standing suddenly. “Enough of this, Holiness: are we all barbarians, that we allow a woman of nineteen to be flogged so in the Holy See?”

“Enough!” shouted Colonna, raising a fist. “Leave her be: she is innocent!”

The rest of the Cardinals joined in, strengthened by each other’s voices, and di Palatine eyed them all, suddenly looking like a rat caught in a trap. Solo turned and looked at him, waiting: his hands and face were spattered with blood. 

“Pah,” said the Pope, raising a hand. “We hear you. Get her out of here: at once— where is that guard, Pinno? Carry her to her chambers, and call a physician.”

Solo dropped the whip immediately as if it burned him and crossed to the platform, reaching her just before Pinno did. The guard lifted her up gently on one side, taking care not to touch the broken skin of her body, and Renata roused suddenly, teeth bared and eyes wild. She snatched Pinno’s knife from his belt and swung it at Solo’s face, half senseless with pain, and the blade opened his right cheek from just below his eye to jaw. The College shouted as one in cries of horror and shock, some sympathetic, some astonished.

“My lady!” cried Pinno, horrified as he grappled with her for the knife. “No, no, you are safe now, and among friends.”

Her eyes found Solo’s, wet with tears and bleary with anguish. “Oh,” she said faintly. “Forgive me, Eminence... I did not mean it.” 

“I will carry her,” said Solo, heedless of the burning pain in his face and the blood pouring down his chin in a hot flood. He lifted her over his shoulder, folded down over his back: to carry her like a sleeping child would mean more pain to her back. “I take my leave, Holiness.” Curtly, he bowed as best he could with Renata’s body in his arms, and walked out of the Sala Regia, Pinno close behind. 

* * *

Renata was aware of a deep, awful pain all across her back as she came to, lying on her belly in her bed in the papal apartments. “Bibi,” she called, coughing: she was so thirsty. “Bibi… water…”

“Here,” said a man’s voice, and she stiffened, but knew the hands as they gave her water to drink from a sponge: it was Pinno, the Vatican guard who Bibi was fond of, even though they quarreled endlessly, and was always bringing her cakes and things from the kitchens. “It is not much, lady, but the physicians say you should not sit up until your back is more healed.”

“I see,” she said, sucking at the sponge. “I am so terribly thirsty. Where… where is Cardinal Solo? I struck him, did I not?”

Pinno nodded. “He is being seen to by the physician. Everyone in the College is saying you split his cheek from eye to throat and nearly killed him in fear, but it is not so bad: I saw the wound myself. Only here,” and he pressed his finger to about two inches below his dark eye, “to here,” the finger slid down to the jaw-bone, “and that is all.”

She shut her eyes in contrition. “More water, please, Pinno. Where is Bibi?”

“The guards took her to be questioned by order of the Pope,” said Pinno, sounding miserable. “I do not know why.” His hands held the sponge close, and she drank.

Renata closed her eyes as he took it away.. “The fault is mine,” she whispered. “I told Grandfather my maids had said… all that about maidenheads… oh, I have been unwise, and now Bibi will pay for it.”

“Try not to worry, my lady,” said Pinno, giving her respite to breathe from the water. “You must rest. A scourging is no small thing to recover from. You need sweet things, water, broth, bread; you will not want to sit up until the flesh has knitted. God be praised, you are a noble lady who is afforded the ability to rest.”

“You have been scourged so before,” said Renata, looking at him with new understanding. “Oh, I am sorry for it.”

He did not answer, but offered more water. “Drink. I will send a boy to get you food.”

The doors opened, and Renata fought to not rise on instinct and look at who was coming in: her back burned like fire. “Who is it?” she called, afraid: was Grandfather coming in to chastise her?

“Pinno, you may go find that boy to bring food. After that, go find where Bambina is, and do your best to guard her from harm. I will give the lady water.” She knew that voice, dark and grave, and relaxed immediately: she was in safe hands… then she remembered the wound she had given him, and shut her eyes, afraid to look him in the face. There was a movement of air near her face, and he said very softly, “Will you not look at me, lady?”

She cracked her eye open, and saw his face. Linen bandaged his cheek, wound about his face: he looked like Lazarus rising from the tomb, his grave-wrappings half on. Blood still stained the piping and buttons of his cassock, brownish dots on the scarlet silk: whether it was her blood or his, she did not know. “Cardinal,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “I am sorry for the hurt I have done to you.”

He shook his head, wet the sponge, and held it to her lips. “The wound you dealt me was nothing next to the pain it gave me to whip you before the court. This,” he pointed to his cheek, “will heal in a matter of a few days, or a week. The other goes far deeper, and cannot be healed in such a short time.”

“I thought he could do nothing worse than to beat me,” she whispered, shutting her eyes. “I was mistaken. Tell me— what has become of Bibi?”

“Bambina is being questioned as to the status of your virginity. She owes me a debt, knows nothing, and is cleverer than she lets on: she will be safe.” 

“What…” Renata waited to sit up, but her back was afire. “Tell me how my wounds look: how bad is it? Be truthful, Cardinal, I beg you.”

He stood and surveyed her. “You have several large stripes from shoulder to waist where the skin was broken; they are not deep, and will heal well. Your arm is wounded also, just here,” and he touched her bare arm, just below the curve of her shoulder. She winced, and he withdrew his hand. “You have bandages of linen laid upon the wounds.”

“My gown?” Renata asked, trying to turn her head more to see him. 

“Ruined,” he said shortly. “You have a sheet cast about you for modesty’s sake. The maids had to cut you out of the remnants of your dress.”

She shut her eyes: all the poor seamstress’s hard work gone to waste. “I am sorry for it,” she managed. “I suppose I shall have to go about like a statue of Minerva, draped in bedsheets, until I can bear clothing.”

“You have been confined to your chambers until you are well again,” Solo told her. “You will have me for confession every afternoon, and a physician in the morning, and only your maids for company.”

“He has allowed you to come to me?” she asked, bewildered. 

“Yes.” Solo’s jaw twitched, as if the muscle beneath was moving. “I believe he wishes to torment me: it is why he remarked on my actions in Genoa in the Sala Regia.”

Poor Cardinal Solo. She could not imagine how terrible it must have been for him to beat her, nor how awful it would be for him to come to her and see every day the work of his hands upon her body— but curiosity was overcoming pity. “What did he mean by that comment, when he said it?” Renata gathered her strength and pushed herself up, clutching the sheet beneath her to her breasts. “Something about the Jews?”

Solo did not answer. His face took on a sickly tinge, and he stepped away. “It was long ago. I do not wish to speak of it. Lie down: you are not well.”

“Tell me,” she insisted, pushing herself to sit upright despite his words. Her back ached and smarted like anything, but she pushed it away as best she could, covering herself in white linen. “I would know.”

“You would? Ah, you would, I see that: you shall not be satisfied until I tell,” he muttered, half to himself, and crossed to the window, one large hand flexing and tightening into a fist. “Very well. The Duca di Fumoso took me into his service by force and bribery, as you recall from our prior conversation on the subject.”

“Yes,” said Renata.

“Well,” said Solo, his face turning hard in the lamplight. “I endeavored to protect my brothers as much as I could: I did whatever he asked of me, anything: I went so far as to lie, to steal, to— to engineer situations where my power as bishop of Genova was misused to his advantage, and after that came…” His hand passed over his eyes, and his shoulders shook with some suppressed emotion, but he continued, in a low dark voice. “The Duke knew for years that the Jews of Genoa were well-off, able to charge usury in their lending, which is forbidden to Christians. They prospered in their businesses: bankers, merchants, physicians. He… he decided that they were coming between his own prosperity, and claimed he had been cheated by them: the nobility began to follow suit, and then… he asked me to get rid of them.”

Renata froze where she sat, paralyzed with horror. “No,” she breathed.

“Yes,” he said in a hard, cold voice. “Yes. And I, twenty-one, with my head full of empty promises and threats and desperation, sure that my actions could be forgiven, _would_ be forgiven, I began an inquisition, I spread rumors, and I personally questioned untold numbers of men, women… _children._ I did things no man should ever do, and I knew they were sins, and I did them anyway. In penance I whipped myself, starved, went without sleep for days, crawled on my knees to Mass: did it do them any good, or myself? No!” He made a sharp, brutal movement, and tore away the linen on his face, turning to look at her, and she recoiled: the wound she had given him was like a smear of vermilion on canvas, the flesh around it swollen and bruised, blood welling still, the eye bloodshot. “I thank you for this, at least,” he said, “that I now carry on my face the ugliness in my heart, the sin that cannot be washed out. You have shown me as I truly am.”

Renata took a little, shaking breath. “What happened to them?” she whispered.

He did not need to ask who she meant. “They left Genoa. Half of them, anyway: the rest remained behind, fighting the persecution I tormented them with, and when the Duke saw that I was broken utterly, he relented, and sent me to Rome with a letter to make me Cardinal, and their torments ceased when I left. And the worst of it: the reason for all the pain and the suffering and the horror of it? He knew that some of my mother’s family were Jews from Provence: that was enough.”

“Your mother… I heard the Pope speak of her in the Sala Regia,” said Renata, trying to keep from weeping. “But I do not understand why he should—”

“The house of d’Organa and the house of di Palatine have been enemies since the days of my grandmother, who was a protege of your grandfather in his youth, wed my grandfather, a priest she loved who forsook his vows and denied his name, and made himself nameless: a dark knight during the wars of Lombardy, going against her family’s armies in battle. And now, a second war brews: my mother is joining forces with Venice to make an assault on Rome and drive your grandfather out. He has been dealt a sore blow in losing di Fumoso, and _you_ are the piece he intended to play to win his armies.”

“And… the first marriage contract, with the Doge?” Renata asked, her head spinning: war? War here, in Rome? Could it be true?

“He overstepped his own shrewdness,” said Solo. “He would have made an alliance with the Doge, but the new one, Pavo, is far more inclined to ally against Rome than with her. More than that, my mother is French, and Italy has feared and hated France for years, ever since the Peace of Lodi. Now the Pope finds himself with no card to play at all, and you have struck him a sorer blow than you imagined: you hold more power than you know.”

Renata felt as if she might faint. She did not feel powerful at all, only in pain, and half-clothed, and very small. “What am I to do now?”

“Wait,” he said, still standing by the window and not looking at her. “Only wait, and pray. I will find you another priest for confession: you will not welcome my presence.”

“You will do no such thing,” she said sharply. “I have nobody else in the whole of Rome to trust save you.”

Solo looked at her then, turning slowly, and his eyes were impassive, his expression unreadable. “Then I will come to you every afternoon,” he said quietly, “if that is what you wish.”

“It is.” Her arm burned like fire, and she looked down, fingering the bandage with a careful hand and wincing lightly as the pain radiated up her shoulder. “Oh, that hurts.”

“I will get cool water,” he said at once, and found a pitcher, soaking a cloth in it and coming to her side. He lifted the bandage, exposing the ugly scarlet tear in her skin, and pressed the cool cloth to her arm as gently as he could. She caught her breath at the sting, and felt her eyes fill with tears. “Does that ease you?” he asked. 

“It does. I thank you.” She averted her eyes, suddenly very conscious that she was nearly naked. “And thank you for telling me all that you did.”

His hand trembled on her arm, and he took it away. “Do not speak of it.”

Renata looked down at her lap, her back aching. “No, I would not. There already are too many secrets we share: remembering another to keep is no great task.” 

Solo’s hand shook with a tremor he could not conceal, and he took his hand away. “Then I take my leave of you, lady,” he said, and left the room.

* * *

She slept after drinking more water, on her belly like a child. Maids came and went, the physician came and went after tending to her, and all she could think of was Cardinal Solo’s anguished eyes. Renata had never given much thought on the plights of those who were not Christians, but his recounting of how he had terrorized and tormented the Jews of Genoa was enough to make her hair stand on end. _The poor people!_ She twisted the sheet in her hands, for lack of anything else to do. Some might have lauded his efforts, even praised him for them, but what if the positions had been moved, and they found themselves a stranger in a strange land, persecuted for their beliefs by others who did not believe the same? It was not right, no matter what the Church said: Renata knew that as surely as she knew that the sun rose in the East. 

And yet, he had done these terrible things, and she still wanted him close by. _I must be mad,_ she thought wildly, _for if he truly did such things, then I should not want him near me…_ sins could be forgiven, but some sins were harder to forgive oneself for committing. Her mind spun round and round. Of one thing she was certain: that she wanted Solo by her side for as long as this business of war and politics lasted. In what capacity, she did not know: she wanted his friendship, his comforting words which soothed her soul, and his…

The door opened, and she turned her head, blinking. Was it already the afternoon? “Cardinal?” she called.

It was not Solo. It was two Vatican guards she did not know, and Cardinal Orgoglio, wearing a grim expression. “You must up and come with us, lady, by order of his Holiness Sisinnius Sextus.”

“I cannot rise,” she protested, shocked. “I cannot even dress. Where is my guard? My maid?”

“Being questioned,” said Orgoglio curtly. “Up with you. I will help.”

Renata stood, wavering on her unsteady feet. Her head spun, and she nearly went down from the pain, but Orgoglio caught her elbow and steadied her as he cast a robe about her shoulders. The touch of the heavy silk on her body was agony to her tender skin. “Thank you, Eminence,” she whispered, and allowed him to lead her down the hall, 

Flanked by the guards, she felt as if she was on her way to a dungeon, or worse. Orgoglio did not speak, only guided her along until they had reached the lowest parts of the Palace, down where the kitchens were… and then she had taken another turn, deeper, and found herself in an ill-lit cell, straw on the floor, with only a wooden chair for furnishing. Her heart froze. “You cannot mean to leave me here,” she said, shocked.

“By order of His Holiness, I must,” said Orgoglio, and helped her sit. She leaned forward, biting her tongue: her back must not touch the chair, but the movement stretched the raw and healing skin. “I am your inquisitor this evening, lady.”

She looked up at him, and remembered: he had shouted for the Pope to cease the whipping, had he not? Perhaps here was a kinder face than she realized. “I see. Pray ask me anything, Cardinal Orgoglio.”

He stood back a pace. “Will you swear a holy oath, as if to the Pope himself, that you have committed no fornication, either with di Damerone, or with any other man?”

Renata blinked. “Yes. Of course I will swear it.” She crossed herself and pressed her hands together, shutting her eyes. “I swear on the blood of Christ, and on the Holy Virgin, and by all the saints, that I have never lain with a man, nor ever seen a man unclothed, nor committed fornication.” She genuflected again and looked up at the cardinal with the largest, emptiest eyes she could. 

“I thought so,” he said, stroking his chin with a finger. “You understand that I must be able to tell the Pope I have questioned you, lady: he must be satisfied as to the harshness of the interrogation. I will not be cruel as long as you are truthful.”

“I thank you, Eminence,” she said. “Only where is my maid, Bambina? Nobody has told me where she is.”

Orgoglio’s face softened a little, and she could nearly see his thoughts: he considered her a foolish girl with nothing inside her mind at all. “She has told her questioners that she brought a woman to examine you in secret, for there was talk among the maids and ladies that reached your ears, saying that young women might have no maidenheads and yet be maids, and you were afraid.”

Renata knew she must tread carefully here: if Bibi had told them that the lady had found a maidenhead, then the discovery of nothing before all the Apostolic Court would be inexplicable— and if the maid had told a lie and said that Renata was found without a maidenhead, then her reaction in Court would be hard to excuse: and which thing would Bibi have chosen to say? “I see,” she found herself saying. And what of Cardinal Solo? Had Bibi said he had been present? Her head reeled. Orgoglio was waiting. She must think of something to say to pacify him, but her back hurt so badly, and then she lit upon it: she knew what she must say.

“I confess that the woman told me— I know not what she told Bibi, but she told me that I had one, intact. I—” Renata made her eyes well with tears, which was not difficult, as her body ached so monstrously. “I went out riding that week, later, at his Holiness’s command with the Duca di Fumoso, and— oh, oh, now I see I have been foolish indeed, Eminence!” She wiped her eyes with a trembling hand, and Orgoglio offered her his cambric handkerchief. “Thank you. I went riding, you see, and as I took the saddle and we trotted across the field to go out, I— something stung most awfully, down in my— well, I— I thought that perhaps it was my courses, for when I returned back to my apartments, there was some blood, so I used linen, as I do, and the bleeding ceased after a day: I thought it might have been some mystery of my body, and gave it no more thought than perhaps a strange short course, ill-timed, until—” and Renata let her face crumble, weeping, until Orgoglio knelt down and patted her hand with as much tenderness as a sixty-year-old Cardinal of the College could give.

“There, there, lady,” he said kindly. “Yes, the maid Bambina told us in honesty that you had a maidenhead, and was ruined with tears, for she did not understand how it might have vanished so, and swore that you remained a maid to all her knowledge and all the knowledge of all the ladies about you.”

Inspiration struck Renata. “You might go up to my chambers, sir: I have some linen on which I bled, thinking it my courses: Bibi can show you where it is. I never spoke of it to her, as it passed my mind so entirely, but she knows where I keep my linen.”

“Indeed I will, and the physician will examine it.” Orgoglio laid his hand on her brow. “May God keep you, lady: you have suffered in innocence, and will surely be rewarded.”

“May God forgive his Holiness for his mistake,” she said as piteously as she could. “May I hear Mass while I am here?”

Orgoglio stood up, nodding. “Yes. I shall send you Cardinal Solo, once he is able to come.” 

She did not press the matter of where Solo was. “Thank you, Cardinal Orgoglio. You have been kind to me.”

When he had gone, leaving her in the chair, Renata at last allowed herself to collapse to the floor: her robe did nothing to guard against the chill of the stony chamber, so she made herself a bed of straw with aching arms until there was sufficient padding between her body and the flagstones, and stretched out on her belly, shivering in a fitful sleep.

 _I have lied. I have lied to a Cardinal, and I must confess._ But she had not lied, not really: Solo himself had told her that fornication was the act of privy parts joining, and they had not done that: so she had not lied about fornication, but she had lied about the horse. Except, it was not _wholly_ a lie, since she had still been bleeding some the first day they had ridden out, and had to use the linen rags. Was a lie less of a sin if there was some truth to it, or a worse sin? _Cleverness and wisdom_ … 

She drifted into a dream, strange and disjointed, where she knelt before everyone in Rome and confessed that she had let Cardinal Solo touch her privy parts with his hands, and the Pope, who had the head of a horse, bellowed his rage, and made her beat Solo with a whip, and he wept tears of blood, his face in shadow. _No,_ she cried in her dream, _no, do not make me do it, it was a sin of pride only, of stubbornness…_ and the Pope answered, saying that stubbornness was as the sin of witchcraft, therefore she was to be burned as a witch, and then she was on a great pyre, tied to a stake and burning, on fire, crying out… 

“Rei,” said a voice, low and urgent, and she woke, curled on her side, weeping. Her back was ablaze in agony. “Rei. _Rei._ Oh, God in Heaven, let her wake, I beg Thee.” A hand touched her brow, and she moaned: it felt so cold, she felt so cold, but she knew the voice. 

“Ben,” she breathed, hardly able to say more. 

“Hush now,” he said, and pulled her into his lap so that she lay across his thigh, head falling back, her back cradled tenderly in his arm. “Lady, you are feverish. How long have you been here?”

“I know not,” she said, trying to think. “Orgoglio came… he questioned me kindly, and departed: I fell asleep…”

He sounded shocked. “Orgoglio? Orgoglio left you hours and hours ago. Has nobody come to give you water? Food?”

“No, nobody. I beg you, Eminence, let me sleep.”

“You must not sleep yet. I will take you to my own chambers, and tend you there myself.”

Her mind was reeling. "But should someone see you..."

"Then I will tear out the throat of the man who tries to stop me," Solo said in black, low tones. He lifted her in his arms, and Renata cried out in pain as the movement assailed her tender back, but he paid it no mind and walked out, striding down the halls past the torches that streamed past her eyes like ribbons of light.


	7. Chapter 7

Solo laid Renata down on his own bed, which he never used, and rolled her gently to her belly, then lifted the robe off her shoulder, pulling it down. The smooth pale flesh of her back had become angry and inflamed, puffy and red along the swelling lines, and he silently cursed the Pope for denying the girl even the smallest of comforts she was entitled to, if not as a lady of the court, then as a human being. “Pinno,” he said shortly, and the guard stepped forward. “You have seen Bambina back safely to her lady’s chambers?”

“Yes, your Eminence,” said Pinno. “She is even now bringing the linen Orgoglio spoke of back to the court to show. All the court is in an uproar: half are furious that his Holiness has treated the poor girl so, and rumor is already spreading that she broke her— forgive me, sir— maidenhood by horse-riding, and was beaten unjustly. The physician has testified that it is the most likely reason she has none, and the Pope has withdrawn to his chambers, demanding his guard watch him day and night: he trusts not the Cardinals, except for a select few.”

“And so he left his own flesh and blood to die in a dungeon, since she had outlived her usefulness,” said Cardinal Solo bitterly. “Thank you, Pinno. For now, keep watch at the door. No one enters until I give further orders, and no one must know that the lady is here.”

“Yes, your Eminence,” said Pinno, and bowed, light gleaming off his helmet. “I will send a boy to the kitchens to get broth for her.”

“Good,” said Solo, and turned back to Renata, who lay insensible on the bed. He had studied medicine, long ago, and recalled the best way to treat inflammation of a wound was with either cold compresses, or compresses soaked in wine, so he rolled up the sleeves of his cassock to the elbow, found clean linen, dipped it into the wine on his table, and pressed it to her back. 

Renata’s eyes flew open, and she moaned: a low, desperate sound that sent his flesh tingling, despite the cry being born of pain. “Oh,  _ no,  _ it hurts,” she gasped, teeth bared. 

“Hush, child,” he said softly, trying to quiet his pounding heart. “Hush. I am washing your back.” He pressed another wad of wine-wet linen to her back, and she cried out again, tears streaking her cheeks and nose. Solo felt his torn face throb in answering pain: he could not imagine having wine doused onto his own wound. He began to murmur all the prayers he knew in Latin: the  _ Paternoster,  _ the  _ Ave Maria,  _ the  _ Symbolum Apostolorum _ : every one of them, and when he ran out of prayers he began speaking in Latin, soft and gentle as he could. Gradually, Renata relaxed, her body going limp beneath his hands, and he washed her clean, pressing linen to her back and winding strips around her waist, lifting and rolling her to get the linen underneath and tie it close. He came upon a conundrum when he attempted to wind the bandage about her upper back, as he found himself touching the curve of her breast, but recalled her speech: as long as he touched her without lust, there was no sin.  _ I am a physician, I act as one: there is no desire here _ , he reminded himself, and lifted her with one hand splayed out on her breastbone, working the bandage beneath her and bringing it back to tie it snugly. 

The door opened just as he had cast the sheet over her for warmth and modesty, Pinno bowing as a boy came in with a tray. “Here is the food, Eminence,” said the nervous-looking page, who set a tray on the table. “Is the lady— will she live?”

He looked so young and frightened that Solo could not help but answer. “She will live, my child. She rests in a fever. We must all pray for her. Tell no one that she is here: she must rest quietly.” Solo handed the boy a letter from his sleeve: he had sealed it with his own ring, a great risk, but he could not take a lesser one. “Deliver this to the maid Bibi, who looks after the  _ principessa _ . She will know what to do with it.” It was no risk to send it in the boy’s hands: he could not read.

“Yes, Eminence,” said the boy, taking the letter, and fervently crossed himself before running back out. Pinno shut the door. Solo crossed to the table and took the bowl of broth: it was hot and rich, the smell of meat wafting up with the steam and making his mouth water. He took the spoon and went to the bed, setting it down on the table close by her head.

“Rei,” he said softly, and her eyes opened sleepily. “You must eat all I give you, and after that you may sleep.”

She did not answer, but dutifully opened her mouth, and he fed her spoonful by spoonful, careful to get as much as he could down her throat: she had not eaten in some time, and gradually color returned to her face. As she tried to swallow the last drops, some fell down her chin in a dribble, and he thoughtlessly swept the broth up with his thumb, then froze in his movement: he had not meant to be so familiar— but Renata turned her head and licked his thumb with her small pink tongue to get every drop. 

Solo’s mind ground to a halt. Her mouth was soft and hot with fever, her tongue wet: it was worse than his service to her had been, and that had made him lust in agony for hours, despite all the praying and penance he had done after in private. He shifted uncomfortably, his sinful flesh rising to the attentions of her mouth, and pulled his hand back. “You must sleep now,” he said, and she nodded, sleepy and sated, and shut her eyes, face going slack in perfect, untroubled sleep. 

He stood, grateful for the billowing cassock that hid his shame, and put away the bowl. There was more food for him on the tray, but he was not hungry for food: he desired something else, something that could not be sated by any sinless means. Solo took another look at the girl lying asleep on his bed, and turned away in shame, his hands shaking as they clutched at the buttons of his cassock. Too many, too small: he lost his patience and tore it open from throat to knee, small scarlet things bouncing and clattering away on the floor. Under it, he wore only his shirt and his linen undergarments: his flesh was burning, and nothing would soothe it but— 

“God help me,” he muttered. The sin of onanism might be a lesser sin than the sin of fornication, but it still broke his vows: he had not touched himself since he had taken them, and oh, how he had taken such pride in his own chastity! “I see that I have sinned,” he rasped to himself, striding to and fro in the bedroom as the cassock billowed behind him. “Pride, pride in my virtue. O Lord, who made my body from the dust of the earth, remove this temptation from my flesh: let me not sin further. I repent of my sins of pride and of lust. O Lord, remove these sins from me, and make me white as snow.” Praying did no good at all, not even after five minutes of it: if God was listening, He clearly meant to teach Solo a lesson about pride. 

Solo removed himself to the anteroom, where he left the door ajar so that he could see Renata’s sleeping form: in case she awoke, he told himself miserably as he cupped his swollen and aching flesh with a trembling hand over his linen drawers.  _ It is not a sin if I do not touch myself with my hand, if I do not spill my seed,  _ he told himself, a soft breath escaping his teeth as he dragged his palm up, then back down, the rough linen rubbing on his cockstand. It felt so good that he had to stop himself from yanking down his drawers and gripping himself in hand. In vain, he cast his eye about for something else to use, and settled on a velvet pillow, his mind racing.  _ It is a selfish act, an act of self-indulgence: it goes against my vows, all my vows! _ Solo could not bring himself to care as he pressed the pillow to his groin, grunting softly as the friction sent his thighs quivering. He could still see Renata, asleep and unaware of his actions as she lay on the bed, and the guilt of his own immoral action only spurred him on further. The soft curve of her bare shoulder, the tendrils of hair clinging to soft cheek and temple: all of it goaded him on. Solo knelt on the floor, his head bent, groaning softly as he rutted against the pillow, the tension of pleasure building in his belly awaiting release: it was familiar, although he had not felt it in years and years. “Please,” he begged brokenly, though he knew not to whom as tears gathered in his eyes:  _ I cannot betray my vows, not like this _ . “Please, no, no,  _ no _ —”

Renata stirred at the sound. He choked himself silent, then flung the pillow away just before the apex, the last movement that would have had him spilling his seed on his own thighs checked in full. Solo bit his cheek in an attempt to quell his frustration, curling forward and placing both hands on the floor as tears streamed down his cheeks.  _ Praise God. Praise God.  _ His prayers had been heard. She had moved and shaken him out of his action: he had not sinned, he had not completed the act, he remained chaste. Prostrated upon the floor, he took in great shuddering breaths, sweat and tears stinging the wound on his face, and prayed desperately for temptation to depart him. 

* * *

Renata woke. It was evening, and Cardinal Solo’s curtains were open to the air outside: a chilly winter breeze blew in, making her flesh pebble and shiver. “Cold,” she said hoarsely, and winced at the pain in her back. It had lessened, but still smarted badly.

“Apologies, lady,” said Solo, walking into her line of sight to shut the windows. She blinked in confusion: he wore his cassock, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, but the buttons had all come off, and it billowed open like a robe over only a shirt and a pair of loose, dark breeches. He was barefoot, despite the chill of the room, and she noticed that his feet were long, pale, and turned slightly inwards as he walked. “I thought it might bring your fever down.”

“Bibi?” she asked, raising herself painfully on her elbows. Solo went to the table, fetched a cup of water, and knelt down at her head, holding the rim to her mouth. She gulped at it, thirsty, and coughed: her throat felt dry as a desert. Solo’s face looked tired, but determined despite the bruise beneath his eye and the wound on his cheek. “Have you heard anything of her?”

“A message came through the guards some time ago,” he replied. “She has been released after showing the soiled linen to the Cardinals, but she is not allowed to come to you yet. It seems Orgoglio let slip your words, and she was clever enough to take the hint and verify the tale to all she saw: all Rome knows you are a true maid by now. The Pope is secluded in his chambers until the turbulence has passed: he knows he has done wrong. I have faith that you shall soon be released.”

“Faith,” she repeated dully. “I should have faith, Cardinal, but I have none. How can I, when I have seen now the things that men do in the name of God? What good is faith?”

He looked stricken, and took her hand in his gently. “Faith is all we have in times of need, lady. Faith is our rock; faith holds us steady.”

She shook her head, ashamed. “ _ You _ are my rock, Cardinal. You hold me steady: in all this mire of doubt and intrigue, you have been the only one truthful with me, the only one I might rely on.”

Solo took a sharp little breath and shook his head, removing his hand from hers. “No, lady. You must not put your faith in man: man is fallible, and God is infallible.”

“Did God take me away from my dungeon and tend my hurts?” she demanded. “Did God treat me with kindness when I came to Rome, or warn me of di Fumoso?”

His eyes went dark. “God did not beat you before the Apostolic Court on orders from the Pope, lady; nor did He sin in His heart against you…” Solo shut his eyes, as if fighting a vision, and turned his head away. Renata reached out and took his hand: his forearms were pale, like some underground root that had never seen sunlight, suddenly unearthed by a spade, and they were corded with hard muscle, dusted with fine dark hair. “I am not who you should put your faith in, lady. Do not ask that of me.”

“I care not if you desire me,” she said boldly, raising her head up to look him directly in the eyes. He looked away, his long face coloring deeply. “No, look at me; you will have the decency to do that. If a hundred men should tell me they desire me, I should not care one whit: there! Is it still a sin?”

“Of course it is,” he said, brows furrowed. “I am a man sworn to vows of chastity, of piety, of asceticism: to desire a woman is a sin, regardless of how the woman feels on the subject.”

“Love cannot be a sin,” she protested. “Not when love is what was commanded: not when love is the heart of Christendom.”

Solo shook his head. “All love has its place, lady: there are diverse sorts of love. There is a love between companions, and the love one has for one’s fellow man, and the love of the kind between a husband and a wife, which belongs only between husband and wife, as the Church teaches.”

“Then I suppose I must confess,” she said, sitting up in some pain and bringing the sheet with her to cover her. “I must confess my sins to you, Eminence.”

He sighed wearily. “Renata, lie down. You are yet feverish—”

“I confess that I— I think about a man who is not to be my husband, and can never be: I think about him and a service he did me once, and I would have him again so, but it must be a sin, Eminence.” 

“Do not speak of it,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, but she pressed on, determined: why should she care for his feelings if he cared nothing for hers?

“I would have him in more ways, I would— I would gladly see him in ways only a wife should see a husband, I— I desire him to be at my side always, I have had thoughts of him that make me feel things I have never felt before. All these must be sins, and I have held them back from you in confession so far: now I wish to unburden my soul, and you will hear me.”

Solo did not move for a moment, did not even speak. “Then unburden yourself,” he finally whispered, his face hardly moving as he stared at her.

Renata gulped for a breath, hardly believing her own candor. “He performed for me a service, Cardinal, a service I would have entrusted to no other, and I felt such ecstasies that my soul wept: the next day, I had to stop myself thinking of his fine hands, his mouth, his gentle soul and kind eyes— five times, I stopped myself. That night, I thought of him in all ways I could: I imagined what his mouth might feel like on my cheek, m-my own mouth, my brow. I thought of his hands treating my body with such care, and thought gladly of doing again all the things we had done, and— and—”

“Speak on,” said Solo through bloodless lips. 

“And I used my own hands,” she whispered, ashamed despite herself, “to make myself feel what he had made me feel: I know that to pleasure the body alone is a sin, and deprives myself of the happiness to be found in a marital bed, and now I understand what it truly means, when I did not know before, and yet I did it.”

Solo made a strangled sound. “You used… your own hands,” he said. 

“Yes, over my nightgown: I— I pressed and pushed until it felt the same as it had when he had touched me, and then— and then I found my own pleasure, all the while thinking of his hands, his lips, his eyes—”

“Stop,” Solo said, voice shaking as his cheeks reddened. “Stop. I beg you—”

“I am not done confessing,” she insisted. “The next day I saw him at Confession, and all the while in the box I could only think of him kneeling at my feet as he did when he did me such service: I wished for the partition between us to be gone, that we might do this deed in the box, and I thought of how we must then endeavor to be as silent as mice, that nobody else around us in the chapel might hear—”

“God have  _ mercy _ ,” snarled Solo, and reared up to his full height, towering over her as she sat: he grasped her by the hair and pulled so that her face tilted up to his flushed one, and brought his mouth so close to hers that she thought for one wild, dizzying instant he was going to kiss her. Both her hands clung to his open cassock, the fingers curled around the crimson border; his body so close that she felt warmed by it. When Solo spoke, his voice had dropped into a black, low growl. “Be  _ silent _ , or I swear by the Holy Virgin I will assign you such penance as to make you weep.”

Her whole body quivered, feeling flush with heat: his hand was strong and hard, and Renata could not help but to open her mouth. “Then assign me my penance, Father: I will bear it gladly.”

Solo bent his head further, pressing his unmarred cheek to hers, his lips trailing along her ear, She tightened her grip on the cassock, and let out a little gasp: he turned his head, pressing his nose to her cheek. “ _ Tu animam meam _ ,” he whispered, and she shuddered, closing her eyes: the pain in her body had faded entirely.  _ You torment me.  _ “I assign you ten strokes for your penance, to be completed at once.”

Her eyes flew open. “But my back is not yet healed,” she said.

“Not on your back, and not with a whip.” His hand, the one buried in her hair, moved, and she let him guide her down to her belly on the bed, her arms outstretched. “Be still,” he commanded, and drew the sheet up, exposing her thighs and backside. “These strokes I shall give you by my own hand.”

Renata swallowed hard, terrible heat gathering between her thighs, and then his large, firm hand, the one not holding her down by the hair, came down with a sharp smack on her nude backside. Heat rushed her body from head to heel. A dreadful cry that was not all pain escaped her lips, and it only seemed to goad Solo on: he brought his hand down on the other cheek, then the other: back and forth with methodical, brutal firmness, all ten strokes, until her backside was stinging and warm and felt as red as her cheeks. Behind her, Solo released a great sigh, then untangled his hand from her hair, drawing her back up to sit by her elbows. Renata felt dizzy, and very warm, and altogether flustered. “Am I n-now absolved?” she managed, blinking up at him. Her privy parts felt as hot and ripe as summer fruit: she could hardly breathe for it.

The Cardinal looked like a man about to come undone. His hair hung in his bright and wild eyes, and a flush stained his high cheekbones. “You are, lady,” he growled. “ _ Ego te absolvo. _ Now I will go and do my own penance. You will excuse me.”

“You cannot leave me like this,” she insisted, blushing to her breast. “You may do your own penance by serving me again, as you did the first time: if I touch my own body to find pleasure, it will be a grave sin, therefore— therefore I desire your service in this manner.”

Solo ran his hand through his hair, looking anguished. “Stay there,” he ordered, and knelt at her feet without any preamble, eyes fixed on her face as he lifted the sheet and— 

The door to the outer room opened, and Solo pulled his hands away from her body violently, as if she had scorched him with her skin. Renata found her composure as he turned away and put his head out of the open window to cool his passions, and when the page entered to take away the tray and uneaten food he saw only Cardinal Solo standing at the window, looking out in deep contemplation, and the Lady Renata fast asleep on her front, draped in sheets. 

When he had departed, Renata sat up, back stinging in pain. The desire in her body had faded, and she felt now only very shy and guilty as she looked at the broad back of the cardinal, facing away from her. He was still as stone. “I am sorry for tempting you, Eminence,” she whispered. “You may go and do your penance: I will not vex you further.”

He turned slowly from the window, and she saw again the pale, tired face with its ugly scarlet wound. “You would vex me, were you the most chaste and modest woman in Rome, and never spoke a word to me. The fault is not yours: it is mine.” He bowed stiffly and crossed the floor. “I will be in the anteroom. Pinno still stands guard. Sleep, lady, and forget this happened.”

Renata pressed her mouth into a shamed little line and looked away as he left the room and shut her door behind him.  _ I should not have done such things,  _ she thought, half-panicked: she clasped her hands to her breast and shut her eyes. “Oh, God,” she prayed aloud, forgetting all her prayers and only speaking from her heart, “please,  _ please _ : if You can hear me, help me not feel such terrible things about Cardinal Solo. Now I know the thing I felt is lust, and a sin.” Her backside still smarted warmly from the ten strokes, and she squirmed in embarrassment. “I do not  _ think _ that such a penance is strictly prescribed very often by cardinals for sins, so I pray you forgive him for that, too. Amen.” She did not feel any peace after that, and thought very hard: she might try praying the Ave and asking the Holy Virgin to, perhaps, intercede. God was likely very busy, with all the wars about to happen, and perhaps He did not have time for such small matters as a girl shut up in a Cardinal’s chambers. “ _ Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…” _

* * *

In his study, Solo was deaf to the prayers on the other side of the hall. Naked to the waist and kneeling before his altar, he grasped a thick leather strap in his right hand and with sharp, abrupt movements he flung it over his shoulder, trembling as the leather reddened and bruised the tender, healing flesh of his back. He did not blink, and he did not move, not even as sweat poured from his temples and black hair became plastered to his brow; but his lips, white as parchment, quivered as he murmured out his own prayer. 

_ Soul of Christ, sanctify me. Body of Christ, save me. Blood of Christ, inebriate me. Water from the side of Christ, wash me. Passion of Christ, strengthen me. O Good Jesus, hear me. Within Thy wounds hide me. Suffer me not to be separated from thee. From the malignant enemy defend me. In the hour of my death call me and bid me come unto Thee, that with all Thy saints, I may praise thee forever and ever. Amen. _

Over and over, until his back was afire and tears welled in his eyes; until he had said the  _ Anima Christi _ forty times, and then he let the strap clatter to the floor and bent at the waist, burying his head in his hands and weeping.  _ I will die if she is taken from me: I will lose my soul if she stays close by. Oh, God: help me, help me.  _ Why had he told her aught of fornication? Why had he consented to take her innocent body in his hands and deprive her of her maidenhead?  _ I feared for the corruption of her soul in this cesspool of a city, and yet it was I who corrupted her, smeared her with my filth, my black soul, my pride, my sins…  _ Bile rose in his throat, and Solo lurched to the window and coughed up the water and bread he had eaten earlier: there was nothing else in his belly.  _ God, save me. Save her, save her from me.  _ But God did not answer: no heavenly message came from above, and Solo shut his windows, crawled in agony back to the altar, and lay down on the cold stone floor, praying for absolution.

* * *

Bambina scampered quickly through the darkened halls: as a maid of twenty-nine years, she was not likely to attract overmuch attention from the nobles who hurried through the Apostolic Palace, all whispering among themselves about what the Pope was likely to do. She slipped into a corridor at the precise time agreed upon, and came face-to-face with another maid she had never met before; a girl in a dull yellow gown and dirty apron.

“Are you Bambina?” asked the woman, eyeing her with some suspicion. The strange maid was small and of a strong stature, with ink-black hair she kept tucked under a proper cap (although some strands had escaped: she looked as if she had dressed in a hurry) and most interesting of all, her dark eyes had no fold on the lids: she must be from some far Eastern country, then, such as Bambina had only heard of in tales from guards and soldiers. 

“I am,” she said, and nodded at the maid. “I am maid to the Lady Renata. Who are you? I was told to meet someone here… ”

The woman smiled. “I am Rosa: I was maid to the Lady Renata before you were, when she lived in Ostia, and I was discharged after she came to the Palace. I have found other employment now. Now have you a letter for me, or no?”

“Oh! Yes.” Bambina slipped the girl the folded parchment: it was folded closed and sealed with red wax, stamped with a ring: she did not know whose and it was not her business. Rosa took the paper and tucked it into her chemise quickly, looking left and right, and made to slip her a coin, but Bambina held her hand up to deny it. “No, no: I accept nothing in exchange. I did not do it for money, friend Rosa.”

“Take it anyway,” urged the maid, “for I was bidden to give it to you.” She pressed the coin into Bambina’s hand and closed her fingers about it. “Take it to his Eminence, Cardinal Solo, and deliver it to his hands,” she whispered, so lightly that Bambina had to strain to hear. “If you cannot get it to him, get it to Pinno and tell him to do so: do you understand?”

What could the Cardinal want with a coin? But Bambina nodded. “Yes, I will do it.”

Rosa smiled. “Go with God, friend.” She bowed slightly and turned, disappearing into the shadows of the hall, and Bambina watched her go until she was out of sight, then scuttled back to the stairs as fast as her feet could take her.

* * *

“Lady d’Organa,” said Cadella, curtseying quickly, “Rosa has returned from the Palace.”

“Oh, God be thanked,” said d’Organa, sweeping to the door as the maid in her tattered gown stepped in and curtsied. “Rosa, what have you?” she asked, and held out her hand.

“A letter, lady.” She handed over the sealed parchment, and Lady d’Organa broke the wax. “No one gave me even a look: they all thought me some scullery-maid. I was in and out in no time at all.”

“Are the reports true? Are the guards even turning against the Pope?” asked Lady Falena, her red hair gleaming in its braids as she stood by the table on which lay the great map of Italy, with all its wooden markers to signify armies and fleets. 

“Not so far as I know yet,” replied Rosa, “but the mood of the Palace has changed, certainly, and not in his Holiness’s favor.”

Lady d’Organa was scanning the letter with an extraordinary expression on her face. “My lady?” ventured Cadella, looking concerned. 

“My son writes me,” she said, “that the rumors are true: the Pope forced him to beat the Lady Renata cruelly before the whole of the Court, and she is recovering in his own apartments, since her safety cannot be ensured in the wake of the scandal. The Pope is in seclusion with his most trusted cardinals, and will not see anyone.”

A murmur went up from the assembled table. “He surely would not have left his own flesh and blood at the mercy of the Court,” said Lady Falena, shocked. “Even di Palatine…”

“Lady d’Organa,” said Signore Schiocco, stepping forward with determination in his black eyes, “let me ride with all haste to Venice and tell the Doge of this. We will amass a cavalry and ride on the Vatican—”

She held her hand up, and he went silent, chastened. “Schiocco, you are the finest horseman in Italy, but this is a battle that must be won by subtle intrigue before a single spur is fastened to a boot.”

“We need the girl,” said the Duchessa Amalia Stretta, pointing a jeweled finger at the Holy See on the map, “before the Pope decides to fling her into a convent and shut her up for the rest of her natural life. She may be our only hope against Rome. We must get her out of the Apostolic Palace, and soon.”

“And how do you propose we do such a thing, Duchessa? Will you go back to Florence and raise an army?” Schiocco asked, hands on his hips. 

“By intrigue,  _ signore _ ,” said the Duchessa. “She is currently indisposed, you said, Lady d’Organa, in your son’s apartments: he protects her. We might send maids under pretense of bringing linens or food, and they might bring her out as quickly and quietly as they could.”

Rosa shook her head. “We would have to go soon, then: who knows when the Pope will exit his solitude? Besides that, she would have to travel all the halls of the Palace unseen by anyone, or in a disguise. And what of her maid, or the guards at Cardinal Solo’s door? Or for that matter, the Cardinal himself?”

“The maid will no doubt be beaten if anyone discovers her part, as will the guard for shirking his duty,” Cadella said suddenly, making all the nobles turn and look at her. “Could we not bring them away safe, too?”

“The more who are found missing, the more di Palatine will suspect treason within the walls,” said Lady d’Organa, not unkindly. “You have a tender heart, Cadella, but we must think with reason.”

“And your son? Will he too be left within the walls to suffer punishment?” Her cheeks were red at her own boldness, but Lady d’Organa merely shook her head. 

“You have been my fondest companion, Cadella, and your concern is welcome, but I assure you that my son can protect himself.” She walked to the table, looking down at the great map, and pointed with her walking-stick. “So. Our friend the Doge may give us a fleet, with which we may hold back any ships from Genoa.”

“We must take care to take the Tiber first.” The Duchessa Stretta tapped the river, inscribed in blue on the map. “A fleet from Naples would be faster to block the river-mouth at Ostia Harbor: Genoa would be sailing against the current this time of year— that is, if the Duca di Fumoso even sends a fleet to assist Rome after his humiliation. I have a cousin in Naples who might raise a small fleet: enough to take the harbor, at least.”

“If we take the harbor, lady, that means war: it is a step we cannot turn back from,” said Schiocco, looking to the Lady d'Organa.

“I know it,” she answered. “You will write to di Damerone and beg an army of him. I will not suffer this monstrous creature on the throne of Saint Peter any longer. Once the girl is safe away, it is war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- And so appears the Resistance! You will be able to decipher which character is who if you do a little Google-translate magic. I basically just took the root English word of names like Mothma (moth) and Holdo (hold) and translated them to Italian, as I did for Pavo-- "Poe" means "peacock" so "il pavone" became "Pavo". 
> 
> \- Is this Sunday and Thursday post update schedule working out okay?? I don't want to overwhelm y'all with too much at once lol. Let me know!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HouseofFinches made some BEAUTIFUL art for the last chapter and you can see it here: https://twitter.com/HouseOfFinches/status/1242473653683527685
> 
> CW for suicidal thoughts and religious flavored self-harm (but you already knew that, poor Cardinal Solo). Mind the tags, they change with the chapter updates! 
> 
> Enjoy! We'll be back to updating every Sunday next week because I have to go back to work, but this has been fun!!

A gentle knock sounded at the thick door to the halls, and Cardinal Solo limped his way to it, knees bruised and aching from his full night of penance. It was morning, so early that the sun had not yet risen, and he felt as old as Methuselah. He took down the bar, a knife clutched in his hand: it was better to be safe than stuck with a blade himself. “What is it?” he asked Pinno.

The guard held out his hand. “A token sent for you, from a friend, Eminence.” His face betrayed nothing of what the token might be, and Solo held his hand out, a coin dropping into his palm. “Nobody else has come by, nor inquired about you. It is being said that she still lies in the cell below, that the Pope has commanded she not be spoken to, and nobody is brave enough to go and look for her.”

“Good. Your vigilance will be rewarded. Trust you any of the other guards to stand watch here?”

“One or two, signore: I will send for them if I can. How is her Ladyship?”

“She sleeps yet: I think the fever may break.” Solo nodded at Pinno and withdrew, shutting the door behind him and looking at the round coin in his hand. It was not the correct weight: weeks of working in the treasury had made him attuned to the weights of ducats and florins, and this was neither: it was too light. 

He made his way back to his study in the antechamber, looking in on Renata as he passed the bedchamber door: she slept, on her side, in the dimness of the room. In his antechamber, he lit a lamp and peered at the coin, his eye catching the smallest of seams along the edge: ah, a false coin. He took the knife in his hand and wedged it gently into the crack, wiggling it until the two sides of the false coin split and opened, revealing a tiny piece of parchment, folded over on itself many times. Solo took it out as carefully as he could, unfolded it, and spread it flat on the altar. 

The writing inside was at first glance indecipherable nonsense, but Solo knew it at once to be a Caesar cipher, and not just any Caesar cipher, but the sort he and his mother had used when he was small, to pass notes, amusing each other. What was the key? Ah, yes: she would always write his name at the top, and expect him to break the cipher from that: it was different every time, and nothing had given him such pleasure as to break the code. Some grief and resentment stung him like a wasp at the memory:  _ were all my childhood games only meant to make me a political piece on a great board, Mother? _

Quickly, Solo crossed to his desk, taking up a thin stick of lead and a scrap of low-quality paper: he would break this code as he had broken countless others. It was only a matter of time. He sat, hunched over the paper, ignoring the deep, bruising ache in his shoulders and back and cheek. The lamp was nearly out when he finally understood it: a substitution cipher, the alphabet split into two pieces and lined up to match, so ORAVNZVAB said BENIAMINO. He quickly deciphered the rest of the message, and when he was done, sat back and looked at the note in his hands. 

_ BENIAMINO, TRUST NO ONE IN THE PALACE. PROTECT THE GIRL AT ALL COSTS. IN NOMINE DEI. _

A chill that had nothing to do with the winter snaked down his back. He stood, crossed to the fire, and threw the paper into it, watching the flame catch at the edges and set it alight in a cheerful blaze. Protect Renata: yes, he would, even with his life, but she was not safe in this place with him as her protector any longer. That much was clear.  _ I should take her away from here; see her safe in a nunnery _ . The thought gave him no more pleasure than the thought of remaining by her side here, hiding in his apartments. Who knew when the Pope might decide to take her by force?

Solo crossed back to the altar and knelt, ignoring the pain in his knees. He crossed himself and shut his eyes, head bent, and prayed ten _ Paternosters,  _ silently thinking all the while:  _ save me from temptation, O God: deliver me.  _

The door creaked open behind him, and he stiffened mid-prayer at the sound. “Eminence,” whispered a very shy voice, “I am sorry to disturb you at prayer, but—”

He finished the last  _ Paternoster _ and raised himself to his feet, his body protesting every move as he turned. Renata was standing in the door. She had dressed herself in one of his nightshirts, which fell to the floor on her smaller frame, almost swallowing her up in shapeless linen. Solo was grateful for the covering: at least here there was no temptation offered by gossamer silks, only by her loose hair, and that was easier to withstand, God be praised. “Yes, lady?”

“I cannot find a chamberpot,” she whispered, red-cheeked. “Nor a— a privy closet I can use.”

“Ah,” he said, clearing his throat. “There is— here,” he finished, and pointed to the door in the wall of the study. 

“Oh,” she said, ducking her head in embarassment, and made her way to the door, stiffly opening it and shutting it behind her. Solo sighed deeply and left the room, going back into the bedchamber. The room was too warm, so he opened the window again and let the wintry morning air flow in, making the lamps gutter. Next, he took advantage of her absence to look over the bed, to shake out the cover and linens, and if he looked at the goose-down pillows with a critical eye and plumped them up, that was nobody’s business but his own. Limping to the table, he cleared away the rest of the food, leaving a bowl of pomegranates. Let a page come later with more food: this would suffice for now.

He ought to change his clothing. Renata might like to bathe. There was a bathing-room set aside for his use that he rarely used (far too decadent for his tastes: cold water and  _ barilla _ soap used to scrub down the body was good enough for anyone), but he thought it would not be difficult to call a page to stoke the fire— likely Renata was used to finer things than standing half-clothed in a drafty room, scrubbing at her own skin. Solo went out to the door, and opened it. Pinno still stood watch, but another guard was there, exchanging words with him, and both of them turned to bow, startled at his sudden appearance. “My lord Cardinal?”

“The lady Renata has woken. I pray you get a boy to stoke the fire for her bath. Is this our new guard, Pinno?”

“Yes, Eminence,” said the guard, nodding at the other. “Gio will stand watch while I sleep: I trust him as I would trust my own brother.” The new guard was nearly as dark of color as Pinno, with a slender jaw, and when he smiled, Solo could see a gap between his good front teeth. 

“I am honored, sir,” he said, in a voice soft and low, “to guard the lady. Shall I also send for maids to help her bathe?”

Solo hesitated. Renata was able to stand, but to bathe herself was a different question: he ought to send for a maid, but who knew what maids were reporting to the Pope or his trusted cardinals, and which were not? Bibi would have been his first choice, but she was still forbidden from coming to Renata in the Pope’s seclusion: therefore there would be no servant suitable to hand save himself. At the thought of washing Renata’s body, Solo felt a terrible urge stir in his loins, and fought to keep his face quiet. “I think not, good Gio: no maid can be trusted. She will bathe herself. Have someone find food, as well: she will likely be famished after only broth.”

“Yes, Eminence: I will see to it myself before I rest,” vowed Pinno, and bowed. Solo nodded at him and shut the door again, walking back to the bathing-room and opening the door. It was dusty in here, and he opened a window, letting cold air flow in as he lit the lamps: he might as well clean it up, since it was to be used at last. 

* * *

When Renata came out of the privy chamber in the study, at last refreshed and relieved (the chamber floor had been strewn with lavender, and she liked it more than her own) she cast her eye about the room in interest. Books of every sort lined the shelves: he must have brought them all from his home in the city, and set them here. She peered at the titles: books by philosophers, by theologians, by great men, historians, even a few poets. Some of the names were unfamiliar, but most were like old friends— she knew these titles well, and reading them brought back memories of Ostia, of the sea and the wheeling gulls and the jewel-green sea. 

Oh, what she would not give to be back there, in her family’s villa, with her dear Rosa and the cook, the gardeners and the steward, the boys in the streets of the city and the fruit trees! Renata sighed heavily: it would do no good dreaming. She was as good as a prisoner here in the Holy See, and would be until Grandfather fancied otherwise, which would likely be until Judgement Day. Entertaining the idea of climbing out the window for a moment, she turned and looked at the desk. A sharp, wicked-looking knife lay on the walnut, next to two funny round things: she picked them up and turned them side to side, and discovered that they were two thin metal objects made to look like coins— no, she realized, putting them together: two sides of  _ one _ coin, a false coin. Who would make such a thing, and for what purpose? Perhaps it was some old game of Cardinal Solo’s… but looking at the knife again with some trepidation, she thought perhaps not. 

Renata pushed the heavy door aside, wincing at the pain it gave her shoulders and back, and made her way back into the bedchamber. A bowl of pomegranates was on the table, but the bed had been re-made and the room freshened. She took one of the pomegranates and opened it with the knife on the table, digging out the jewel-like seeds with her hands and eating them. The juice was sweet and good, yet her belly rumbled: she was hungry for more than fruit. A door she had never seen opened before was slightly ajar, and inside there was light and steam, and the smell of… roses? She wrinkled her nose and stepped further, pushing that door further open and peeping round the edge. 

Cardinal Solo was inside, his clothes dusty, his cassock draped over a chair, and— wonder of wonders! an enormous copper bath, lined with linen sheets, was filling up with steaming hot water from a tap in the wall. She immediately became aware of her own body, the grime and the stink of sweat and fear that clung to her like cobwebs, and wished she had not worn his nightshirt, to sully it so. Solo was busily folding towels, checking the bathwater, ordering and reordering an array of combs and soaps and vials on a table near to hand. She saw that his dirt-streaked shirt was rolled to the top of his pale, corded forearm, and that he had sweat through it almost completely: the wet linen clung to every line of bone and muscle beneath. Renata took a soft breath and knocked on the door.

He jerked to his feet at once from where he was kneeling by the tub, turning the tap off. “Ah,” he said, seeing her. “Lady. You— I—” Solo gestured helplessly at the room as a whole with one arm. “I thought you might like to bathe,” he said.

“I would,” she assured him, and saw his lip twitch in some expression she could not hope to understand. “If you might help me in, my lord Cardinal, I will— I will bathe myself.” It was not that she did not want help: indeed, her back and arms ached so badly that she was sure she would not be able to lift her arms at all, it was only that the thought of being wholly unclothed in a bath before any man, even the Cardinal, made her feel rather afraid. 

“Of course,” he said, almost too quickly. “Lift the hem as you enter the tub, and I will pull it from your head: then your modesty shall be saved.” Renata almost laughed: modesty! Modesty, when he had seen her most privy parts, and touched them with his hands? But she nodded gravely and took his arm, climbing into the tub with some pain and holding the hem of the nightshirt in her other up out of the water like a washerwoman in the Tiber, and he lifted all of it off her body as she sank down to her chin in the hot water, gasping as the heat soaked into her sore back. His footsteps receded, and the door closed almost entirely. Renata knew, without being told, that if she called, he would come at once. 

She exhaled softly, watching her breath blow the steam across the surface of the water in furling coils. There was soap and a linen square to wash with, so she took it and began the slow, painful process of scrubbing her lower body clean. The water had been scented with roses: she wondered where he had found the oil. 

Lifting her arms proved to be far too much of a trial. She leaned back to wet her hair, and found herself unable to wash her shoulders or underarms. Washing her hair was as impossible as flying to the Moon: every movement of her shoulders and the muscle underneath, bruised and battered, brought tears to her eyes despite the soothing heat.  _ Should I call for him? _ She shut her eyes, gasping slightly with the pain. “O Lord,” she said, gritting her teeth, “who healed the sick and the infirm, a miracle would not be amiss—  _ oh _ — at the moment, if You are listening.” More tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to reach for the soap again, her back aching, and she cried out in pain, biting her lip as the soap slipped from her grasp and fell from the bathing-tray into the water. The door opened slowly, and Renata groaned, covering her chest quickly with both arms in instinct, but crying out again as the movement hurt her. “I am sorry, I did not mean to cry out,” she managed, unable to even look in his direction.

“It is no trouble,” Solo said calmly. “You have only to ask, and I will help you, lady.”

“I dropped the soap,” she whispered, shamed. “I cannot find it. I cannot move: everything hurts, my hair wants washing and so do my upper parts. Forgive me, Eminence.”

“You need not my forgiveness. You have not sinned.” She heard him kneel with a soft sound of pain, and he reached into the tub, his arm disturbing the water as he felt about for the soap. “There,” he said, and lifted it out, setting it back on the tray. “I will wash your hair, and your shoulders and arms.”

Renata turned her head to look at him, half-afraid he would be trying to look at her nude form beneath the water, but he was only looking at her face with an expression of such gentleness and concern that she felt guilty for even thinking such a thing of him.  _ Guilty! When he turned me over his knee, not six hours ago!  _ She must not think of that. “As Christ washed the feet of the Apostles, so you shall wash me,” she said lightly.

Solo took the linen cloth. It looked very small in his broad hand. “It would be an honor,” he murmured, and began to gently scrub her shoulders. Renata found herself relaxing to his touch: he had very strong and careful hands— a little clumsy, but sure and firm, rinsing her clean. He washed her other arm, his bare hand holding her wrist and elbow gently as he washed her, and then he lifted her arms to wash beneath them. She flushed as he scrubbed her bare skin there: Grandfather had insisted she remove her hair before her ill-fated betrothals as befitted a fashionable lady, and due to a concoction of lard, mustard, and juniper, she was as bare as a child, the hair burned away. He did not seem to notice or care much, and kept his eyes fastidiously above her collarbone. 

The room was warm: so warm that sweat beaded down her throat. Renata felt very languid as he knelt behind her with a soft sound of pain and washed her neck: her back still hurt her, but it had faded. “What would you recommend to dress my back?” she whispered, if only to keep a conversation going.

“Only a cold cloth,” came the answer, as a careful hand lightly washed the stripes there. She winced, but bit her tongue: she must not cry out. “Your skin has knitted, and the bruising that gives you such pain will soon heal: you are young and recover quickly. More quickly than I.”

“I shall defer to you on all matters of whippings,” she said lightly, letting her hair fall down into the bath as he went for the lye soap to wash it with. “Did I hear something troubling you as you knelt?”

Solo was silent, and she shifted uncomfortably, but forgot it as his hands worked the lye soap into her hair. Oh, but it was heavenly: his hands were so large as to nearly cover her scalp, and worked with the utmost care to wash every lock and strand: she uttered a sound of contentment and the next instant blushed to remember that she had made nearly the same noise after the ecstasy he had dealt her with those same hands. Solo said nothing, and she shut her eyes, letting him handle her head as he would, then opened them when he stood and got the pitcher. “Now you are to be rinsed,” he said, and she tilted her head backward as she so often did with Bibi, letting him pour water from the bath all through her long hair, rinsing out the soap in great froths. 

“And the almond oil, if you have any,” she added quickly: he was a man and did not know of such things. “To keep the hair shining.”

“Ah,” he said, and plucked a vial from the shelf. “Yes. I use it myself on occasion.” 

She raised her eyebrows at that: so the Cardinal had one small vanity after all! “I will stand, then and sit so you may dress it: I cannot lift my own arms to do it, or I would not trouble you.”

“Yes, go on,” he said, and she got her feet beneath her and stood in a rush, water pouring off her body as she wrapped her arms about her breasts and shivered in the suddenly-cool air. Solo wrapped her in a towel, eyes cast aside, and helped her out, sitting her down on a stool and first combing out all her long hair, then working the oil into it. She quieted the beat of her poor heart: it was warm in the towel and her back still ached. Solo carded his fingers through her hair, likely to make sure the oil had spread evenly, but she felt a tremor in his fingers as they left the ends of it, down at her waist. 

“Are you in pain, sir?” ventured Renata.

“Some,” he answered. “There, your hair is done and dressed, although not better than your maids could have done it. Forgive me.”

She stood and turned to look at him as he got to his feet, and even his impassive face could not hide the shadow of pain that crossed it. “You  _ are _ hurt,” she said immediately, “and I have made you help me like a servant.”

“It is nothing,” he insisted, lips gone very pale. “Nothing. You must return to bed: you are the one who ought to be attended on. I am well.”

“You certainly are not,” she said, wiping her brow with the corner of the towel. “I tell you, I will help you, as I did before. Let me get some clothing, and then I shall see to you as you have done to me.”

“That is not necessary,” he protested, but his words fell on deaf ears as Renata crossed to the door and back into the bedchamber, where she opened his wardrobe. Finding only another nightshirt, she tugged it on over her head quickly and turned just as he came into the room, his cassock back on, and his cheeks stained pink with either the heat or discomfort. “Lady, I tell you again, I am not in need of tending.”

“Oh, words, words; you say it but it is not true. Come and sit, that I may tend your hurts: I am sure you have dealt them upon yourself, but I will tend them anyway.” She pointed at the chair by the fire, which had dwindled by now to embers, and Solo sat, unable to protest further, as she took some kindling and another log from the pail at the fireside and blew the coals back into a cheerful blaze. “Now, I shall play at being physician: what ails you?” she asked, sitting back on her haunches and looking up at him expectantly.

He sighed, eyes flitting to look at the fire and not at her as he spoke. “My knees, lady, chiefly: after that my back.”

“Ah, then let me see the knees first,” she ordered, and he dutifully lifted his cassock, exposing his bare legs beneath, and pulled the breeches up, exposing a pair of pale, solidly built knees that were mottled scarlet and purple. Renata felt a stab of pity, and reached out her hand to lightly touch the marks. “Oh,” she said, soft and quiet, “I am sorry for it.”

“It was my penance,” he said, as if that excused it all.

Renata stood and made her way to the basin by the window: the water was cold by now. She dipped in a napkin and came back to the Cardinal, sitting at his feet and gently pressing the cold cloth to his knees. “There,” she said, as his face relaxed in some relief, “you said a cold cloth for bruising. What a pair of fools we must be, the both of us: one has been beaten and the other beats himself, so both must minister to the other in pain themselves.”

Solo looked wounded, and Renata held her tongue in shame: she should not have said such a thing, to make light of his penance. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose I have been foolish to mortify my flesh to weakness at a time when my body must serve to protect yours, lady. You are right. I will therefore take note of all my sins, and do the penance at some later date.”

“I hope you will not sin too much,” she said, peering up at him from his knee, “else you are like to half-kill yourself with the mighty sum of it, Eminence.”

He looked down at her with some strange expression writ on his long, gloomy face. “Pain is a gift to bring us closer to God; to remind us of how Christ suffered.”

“And yet I hear of none of the other Cardinals doing such things, or if I do, it is not to the extent of wounding themselves so badly that they can hardly rise,” she retorted. 

“I am not like the other Cardinals,” he said sternly.

Renata smiled. “No? No, you are not. Ah, there is a sin, if you like: that if pride, perhaps, in your own piety, and dear me! now you must do more penance!” Solo jerked in his seat, staring at her with shocked, dark eyes. He looked as if she had struck him to the heart, and she felt terribly guilty at once: there was some spot she had touched that was as tender as a bruise. “I am sorry, I did not mean to be cruel, Eminence; it was only a jest.”

“No?” he said, voice choked by some emotion she could not parse out. “No, you did not, and yet you have put a knife in my heart with your words. God in Heaven, child. Sometimes I think you truly are some angel sent to minister to me with truth.”

“I am no angel,” she said, flushed. “Come, let me see your back.” Solo sighed, but leaned forward in his seat. He pulled one arm, then the other, from his cassock sleeves, and then set his jaw tightly, the muscle beneath the skin trembling, as he pulled his shirt off. It was still wet from his sweat and the steam, and peeled off like a second skin, revealing his bare upper body, and Renata looked away, suddenly shy of him: this felt wholly different than the first time she had seen him half-naked, and she could not understand why. She drew herself to her feet and looked over his shoulder, and caught her breath in a sympathetic little sound: his scarred shoulders and back were a tapestry of deep purple bruises blooming under scarlet abrasions, and worst of all, the silk stitches she had given him had burst in four places, and the wound they had closed was knit, but raw and weeping where the stitches had broken. “Oh, sir,” she breathed, forgetting herself and touching his neck for lack of anyplace else. “I am sorry.”

“It is not… unbearable,” he said roughly, the muscles of his back gone tense. “A cold cloth will suffice.”

“You have burst your stitches,” she said, sighing and crossing over to the basin again. “And after I worked so hard, and you promised not to.”

He sighed. “I am sorry. I will remember that sin and do penance as soon as I am whole and healed again, lady.”

“You will not,” Renata scolded, returning with a small towel, the only thing she could find long enough to lay on his back and reach both shoulders at once. “Lean forward.” He obeyed, and she spread out the cold cloth, making his breath come in a hiss. “I might as well take the rest out: it has been some weeks. Wait a moment, and I shall get— have you any small scissors here?”

“Yes,” he answered, “on the table there: I keep a sewing kit for repairs on my cassocks. It is in the drawer.”

Renata crossed to the table and opened the drawer. After securing the small leather pouch, she came back and opened it, and found a marvelous little pair of scissors, well-made and sharp, without any frivolous engravings or decoration. “You must be very still,” she advised him, bending down and drawing the sheet back. 

“I shall be as still as ice, lady,” he said, and Renata made short work of the stitches, clipping every thread and drawing them from his skin. To his credit, Solo did not make a sound or movement, but when she had finished and drawn the cold cloth back over his back, he groaned a little. 

“One wonders when you did to earn such a dreadful punishment,” she mused, rising and poking lightly at the fire. 

He turned his head to look at her, and she saw his eyes, black and haunted, flickering in the light of the flames. “All sin is sin,” he said shortly, “but some sins do not need to corrupt the ears of innocents.”

“Innocents!” Renata exclaimed, sitting back on her heels. His nightshirt was so large it was nearly falling off her shoulders. “I am hardly innocent, sir, or have you forgot—”

“I have not,” he said, “and you ought to forget. It cannot— you cannot—” and he went very still, looking at the fire. 

Ah, so there it was: he did think of it. Renata gathered her courage. “When you— when you delivered penance to me—”

“You must forgive me for that,” he said quickly, bowing his head. “It was— it was rash, and ill-advised, and wholly unpardonable of me to have done so, for now you are inflamed with lust only of the body, and not of the spirit: your pure affections that God intended you to have only for your husband have become corrupted.”

“I… I did not dislike it,” she admitted, cheeks aflame. “I hold… I hold great affections for you, Cardinal, of diverse sorts, in my spirit and— and in my body, and I cannot think them so corrupt, even if they may not be wholly pure.”

Solo made a choking sort of sound and covered his eyes with his hand, trembling. Renata looked away, trying to give him some privacy. “You did not dislike it,” he echoed, taking his hand down and looking so tired and old that she felt a pang of remorse for speaking so. “I see. Lady, you are not the first young woman who has ever had such emotions toward a man of the cloth: toward someone who cannot return your affections. I exhort you therefore to find another outlet for such emotions, such feelings: pray, and rein them in, to be bestowed upon your husband, whoever he may be or— or after you have taken a husband and done your duty by him, I know in Rome it is often the fashion of noble women to share a bed with another man, although it is adultery: but by God, lady, do that instead, and do not turn your eye upon me, to desire me.”

She bent her head, her eyes filling with tears: never before had she felt such things about a man, never before had she admitted such feelings, and  _ never  _ had she felt such a sharp sting of rejection. “Another man?” she said. “I am nothing more to my grandfather than a tract of land, or a card in a great game he plays: I chose to take the one thing he valued of me into my own hands, that I might control my own part in some small way, and now I shall not be married to anyone. What is my future, Cardinal, if not wed off to some great man for my grandfather’s benefit?”

“You might enter a convent,” he said, and Renata looked back up, staring at him in outrage. 

“A convent! If you had suggested such an idea to me before you ever touched me, I might have agreed, being ignorant of the pleasures denied to me by such a choice: now I would rather die than do such a thing.” 

“Renata,” he murmured, covering his eyes again. “I have sinned in doing what I have done unto you. God knows I tried to touch you without any lust, but the Devil is stronger than I. You do not desire me, lady. You cannot desire such a man as I: a man who has taken the lives of those who have done no wrong, whose hands drip red with innocent blood. Rather you desire an idea that you have made of me, as is common with the youth, who can still dream.”

“I know you must dream,” she said, standing stiffly. The blood had risen to her cheeks: she felt ashamed of her own feelings, and a great hopelessness drowned her: he did not understand, and even if he did, he would not— could not show her the affection she desired. All the future seemed to stretch out before her, bleak and dismal: no true love, no affection, no life worth anything. “If that is your answer, then I shall press you no further on the matter of your emotions, as I know men are not wont to speak overmuch of them.” She went to the table and fetched the other half of the pomegranate, putting it into his hands. “Eat this, it will give you some strength,” she said, and turned away to the window, removing herself from the Cardinal, who sat in his chair by the fireside, looking at the jewel-bright fruit in his hands.

* * *

Pinno, refreshed from a full ten hours of sleep, made his way back to Cardinal Solo’s quarters. Gio was still standing guard, and he was pleased to see it: the other man was new to the city, having only been here for two months, and after a few conversations he had realized that he was a kinsman from the far-away Mali Empire. “ _ As-salaam alaikum _ ,” Gio had whispered fiercely, and Pinno had almost wept to hear the beautiful words again on the tongue of a stranger. Although Pinno had been sold to Rome through Portugal and from thence to Rome, and he had told Gio so, the other man seemed less inclined to discuss his own story, and Pinno understood: he often guarded the Pope himself, and it would not do to lose such a position to careless gossip on the matter of faith.

“You are not sleeping on your feet, I hope,” he said lightly as he approached the door. Gio smiled, showing the gap in his front teeth, and shook his head. 

“I am not, brother: I am only waiting for you. The lady has had her bath, and the Cardinal asked for more food an hour ago: I think she sleeps.” 

Pinno nodded. “That is good. I have news. The maid Bambina is being questioned yet again: someone thinks they saw her speaking to some Cardinal that his Holiness distrusts. The poor woman.”

Gio made a sound of sympathy. “Is she liked, then, this maid?”

“Very much so, by most of the guards: she brings us gossip and never puts on airs, for all she knows the lords and ladies. I will tell you of how I became acquainted with her: I saw the Doge of Venice, Pavo di Damerone, kissing her in an alcove, and he asked me where I might get them to his rooms without being seen.” Pinno spread his hands to illustrate. “Such a large hall: someone was bound to find them! But I took them back behind a wall, into a passage built long ago, to take them round the back ways: I had been shown it by my captain, who made me swear only to use it for righteous purposes. Well, he gave me a silver ducat, and Bibi gave me a kiss on the cheek: so I was paid.”

“Is it righteous to help a man and woman engage in such sinful acts?” asked Gio, one eyebrow raised.

“Well, no,” admitted Pinno, “but I like her, and I like him well enough: he is always smiling and never cruel or thoughtless to servants or guards. It is like this, friend Gio: I have heard these Cardinals and priests and bishops all say that to look upon a woman not one’s wife with desire is equal to the sin of fornication and adultery: this is so. Therefore, when di Damerone cast his gaze upon our Bambina, he sinned just as terribly as he would, had he taken her that instant, yes?”

“ _ Allahu a’lam _ ,” said Gio, looking alarmed.

“So then, I facilitated nothing,” said Pinno. “The sin was done, whether I involved myself or no: and I gained a kiss and a ducat into the bargain. Whether it be righteous, I leave to God.” He cast his eyes upward piously.

Gio rolled his eyes, but laughed, shaking his head. “Ah, you who wash your hands clean! I will go and sleep. If I hear any more news, I will tell you at once.”

* * *

Pinno stood vigilant at the door. He was almost sure that the whole of the Palace was asleep: it was three hours past midnight, and he could hear a bell being rung from somewhere to mark the hour. Several people had passed by his door, looking at him with caution: it was well known by now among the servants and maids and pages, if not the cardinals and the nobles, that Cardinal Solo was protecting the little  _ principessa _ , and that Pinno was a very good hand with a blade and spear. He felt as if he was standing on the edge of some great precipice: any moment might bring a legion of his fellow guards against him to break down the door and drag the girl back to her holy grandfather, should the Pope discover her hiding-place. Then he would have to make his choice, and should he choose wrongly, it would not be easily washed away. 

He liked the Lady Renata, as much as any guard was allowed to like a noblewoman: Bibi had always spoken of her in the kindest terms, sometimes with frustration, as if she felt more of a nurse to a spirited child than maid to a lady, but Renata had always tried very hard to please her irascible old grandfather. It had never gone well, and servants talked behind doors. He had not trusted Cardinal Solo, knowing the rumors of his treatment of the Hebrews in Genoa (and some Moors, if all the tales were to be believed) until the Pope had forced his hand against the woman in the court, and when he had seen the drawn, haggard face, he had known immediately that the holy man cared for Renata, perhaps more than was seemly for a Cardinal. 

Pinno’s hand went to his knife. He had cleaned it after Renata had snatched it and used it to rend Cardinal Solo’s face in a fit of terror and fear, half-sensible, but sometimes he still fancied he could smell the blood on the steel.  _ May Allah give me strength,  _ he thought dismally,  _ if I must baptize the knife once more.  _ He had no time to consider further: steps were coming towards him, and he straightened at once, clutching his spear… but it was only a maid, a common sort, and he had half a mind to tell her to begone, but she walked directly up to him with no fear at all.

“You are Pinno?” she asked. He saw the pretty, plump cheeks: the face, differently formed than most he saw in Rome but no less lovely; the eyes like two almonds, the cheerful mouth turned up at the corners as if about to smile. He felt his tongue go heavy and thick, as if he could not speak, or had forgotten how. 

“Yes,” he finally answered, sounding unlike himself. Here, too, was a stranger in a strange land, like him. “Who are you, lady?”

She smiled. “I am no lady, good Pinno. I come bearing a message from a friend to the Lady Renata di Palatine who seeks to help her in her hour of need. Tell her that this next night, at the hour of midnight, she must go with all haste to the kitchens, and remain unseen, and she will be rescued from this place. Do you understand?”

“This next midnight,” said Pinno, realization breaking: so the lady was to be freed after all! “And what shall be her sign, then, that she knows this message to be from a friend and not a foe, or ally of the Pope?”

The woman nodded. “Tell her that her old maid Rosa sends it, and remind her of the time she won two florins gambling in Ostia with weighted dice, and gave the florins to a beggar with no foot. Tell her so, Pinno.”

“I shall,” said Pinno, fascinated by this account of the  _ principessa’s _ actions. “A beggar with no foot, weighted dice, two florins. Have you any news of her maid Bambina?”

“Still being questioned by the court, last I heard, but it is hoped that she shall be free shortly,” said Rosa. “I must go.” And she did: her leather-shod feet tap-tapping away down the marble floors of the hall, and Pinno watched her go. 

* * *

Cardinal Solo woke from a fitful half-sleep, lying on his belly on the meager bed he was accustomed to on the floor of his chambers. It was dark and the moon was high and full, pale silver light flooding in through the open window. He was cold. The fire had gone out. A silhouette sat in the window, a woman in a nightshirt, her hair all tumbling down her back in dark locks. “Rei,” he said without thinking, sitting up. He was still fully dressed: his conscience would not allow him to disrobe in a room where any woman slept, and he had been sleeping on his cassock-buttons. Why was she in the window? They were five stories high off the ground: she might fall, she might break her neck.

She turned and looked at him, a shapeless figure in the dark. “Forgive me,” she whispered. The moonlight shone through her nightshirt as the wind caught it about her legs, outlining the form of the body beneath, but he felt no desire at the sight of it, only some uneasy dread. “I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking, lady?” Solo pulled himself to his feet with some difficulty: his knees still ached, as did his back. “Come out of the window. It is unsafe.”

“Unsafe,” she echoed, as if dreaming. “Safe. What is  _ safe _ , Cardinal, to me? I shall never be safe, not with anyone. Even were I to go to Portugal, or France, or— or even Egypt, I shall not be safe from him. Were he to die this very day, I should not be free, for I am entangled in such a web of his making, a web of the court, the intrigue, the politics: no, Cardinal. In the window… in the window, I am safer than with my feet upon the ground.”

Solo did not like the sound of that. “You will fall, lady. Come.” He stretched out his hand, but she did not move to take it, and he stared at it in the moonlight: pale, thick, ugly.  _ She will not touch me, _ he thought, and the idea cut him to the quick. “Rei,” he said again. “I pray you. Take my hand.”

“But,” she continued, as if she had not heard him, “but should  _ I _ die, I would be truly freed.”

Cold horror gathered like bile in his throat. “To take one’s own life is a mortal sin, unforgivable: you will spend all eternity in Hell.”  _ Rather than take my hand, she would die? _

“What is hell, Cardinal, if not this room? What is torment but the life I am expected to lead?” Her voice was trembling. He must snatch her from the window, must be quick: any false step or movement and she would fall. “No, sir. I believe I may find it a preferable place— and I cannot recall the taking of one’s own life in the Bible, save Judas, who hanged himself after betraying Our Lord, and as it is not said by the Gospels where he spends eternity, whether Purgatory, Hell, or Heaven, I am inclined to believe that his sins in life secured him his spot in torment, and not the manner in which he died. Cardinal, I ask that you absolve me, then, of all my sins in life.”

“I will not,” he heard himself say, as if from the bottom of a well. “You have lost your head, Renata: now come out of the window at once.”

“If you will not absolve me, then I will truly spend eternity in torment,” she said, and stood all at once, filling the window like some specter of ill-omen as the winter air blew her nightshirt about her body. Solo’s heart dropped to his belly. “I will go, then, to my fate: God bless you.”

One hand left the window-frame to cross herself on instinct, and Solo seized his chance. As she stood, he leaped up to the sill of the window, a foot deep, snatched her by the hand she was using to bless herself, and twisted her about, clutching her to his breast as tightly as he could with one arm while he dragged her down off the window-sill and slammed the window shut with the other hand. “Be still,” he barked, as she struggled in vain, crying out. “Be  _ still!” _

“No!” she wailed, twisting and thrashing. “No, I beg you, let me  _ go! _ ”

“I would sooner lash you to the bed-posts with a cord!” he shouted, and she threw all her weight at him, struggling to be set free. Both of them crashed down on the bed, and he rolled her beneath him, pinning her with his weight: he was much heavier than she was, and stronger, and she fought him and struck him and cried until all the fight had gone out of her, and she lay beneath him, weeping and still. “Now,” he said, breathing heavily, “will you listen to reason, or shall I tie your feet to the bed?”

“Do as you please,” she said dully as tears stained the silk bedcover. “I care not.”

Solo stood and went to the windows with a speed borne of urgency. He closed and barred them all, then crossed to the fireplace, where he built up the fire again, keeping one eye on her always. Renata did not move, or look at him, or indeed anything else in the room: she only lay there, as still as a corpse, and the only movement was the rise and fall of her breast as she wept.

When the flames were blazing brightly and the room was warming again, Solo stood and approached the bed. “Come,” he said, extending his hand. “You are doubtless cold.”

She did not move, only looked up at him with such despair that his heart wrenched for her. “I cannot rise,” she said, sounding exhausted. “I am cold, and cold let me stay: I have no heart left, and I do not want to live.”

“I will bring the heat to you, then,” he said, and went to the fire, letting the heat soak through his cassock, and back to the bed he went, and lay himself down next to her, wrapping his arms about her. Renata sighed, and then— miracle of miracles— she turned herself toward him, bringing her arms between their bodies. 

“You are warm,” she whispered, and more tears fell. In a quick movement, she curled closer, and clung to his cassock, burying her face in his collar, and began to sob. “I am sorry, I am sorry for it all,” she wept, and Solo held her in his arms, stroking her hair as if she was a child. 

“To despair is not a sin,” he whispered into her hair. “Hush, my child. You are safe: I swear it.”

“Am I?” she cried, tearing herself away and sitting upright, eyes ablaze. Solo sat up as well, startled by her sudden change in mood. “When you have a false coin in your rooms, a hollow thing a letter might fit inside: who is speaking to you, then? Are you some friend of my grandfather in secret?” His face must have changed, for she lit upon it like a cat on prey. “Ah, I see: it is a duplicity on both sides. I was ordered to give you false confession, and— what, were you ordered to become close to me? To pretend you felt desire for me, to make me pity you?”

Solo was aghast. What accusation must he answer first? He could only think to say, “The coin did not come from your grandfather, lady. It came from my mother.”

“Your mother! Your mother! So you have been conversing with her, giving her details of my confessions for some intrigue, is that it?” Renata was furious: her face had turned scarlet and tears welled in her eyes. "What have you told her?"

He could barely breathe. “I would never break the seal of confession.”

“No? And yet you broke it when you told di Damerone’s sins to the Pope! You serpent! You  _ liar _ _!”_ Renata struck him across the face in fury: her hand slapped a crimson bloom into his unmarred left cheek, and something in Solo’s breast cracked, something small and fragile that had only just been beginning to take shape. “This is all some game you play with your mother, with my grandfather, with— with  _ me—” _

“No,” he said through numb lips. “No. Never with you, Rei.”

Renata was weeping again, and he longed to comfort her, to tell her that he had never betrayed her trust, but that was a lie, was it not? He shut his eyes, sickened, as she took a breath again. “You pretended to care for me, and it was all false,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, shaking his head: how could he make her trust him now? “By the Holy Virgin, by all the saints and Christ’s own blood, that was not false, my child. Listen to me. My mother charged me to keep you safe, to protect you with my own life if—”

“I do not care what your mother charged you to do,” she snapped, slipping off the bed to stand on her own feet. “I have been a fool to trust anyone in this city. I see that now. Bishops and cardinals break their holy vows, confession is treated as a game for power, and there is corruption at the heart of this place like none other. I have let the pomp and splendor turn my head, but now I see truly: it is all lies for power.” She wiped her eyes. “How deep does the rot run, Cardinal Solo? Is every monk and friar not to be trusted? Is the Holy Mother Church all a lie?” Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “Is God Himself in Heaven, or some other place, or does He even exist at all? When I pray, who hears me?”

Solo knelt on the carpet at her feet and bowed his head. He could think of nothing else to do. “I have caused heretical thoughts to enter into your mind by my own actions and sins.” He would  _ not _ consider the remotest possibility that she might be correct: that was an abominable heresy of the highest sort. “I beg you to forgive me.”

“Oh, be quiet,” she said angrily through her tears. “You have committed your own sins in Genoa, and you excused it to yourself until the weight of your sins broke you. I will not hear of heresy from your mouth: I think the simplest man in the world in some far land who has never heard of the Church and goes about his life as an ordinary man is less of a sinner than  _ you. _ ”

Solo could not breathe. The guilt and shame threatened to strangle the life from him. “You are angry,” he managed to say, his head still bent. “That is good. Anger is better than despair.” She opened her mouth, but a knock on the door interrupted her, and Solo stood. “Stay here,” he said quietly, and Renata made no move to disobey as he picked up his knife, held it at his side, and went to unbar and open the door.

Pinno stood there. “Sir,” he said quietly. “I have been charged to tell you that this next midnight, the Lady Renata must go to the kitchens with all haste and silence.”

“Who sends the message?” asked Solo, his knife-hand relaxing.

Pinno smiled. “Her old maid, Rosa; and a prettier face I have never seen, Cardinal.”

“Did you say Rosa?” whispered Renata, who had come up so quietly, peeping out from under Solo's arm, that he nearly jumped out of his skin. “My Rosa? Are you sure?”

“Yes, lady. She charged me to remind you of the time you gambled in Ostia with weighted dice, won two florins, and gave them both to a lame beggar.”

“That  _ is _ Rosa,” Renata said firmly, “no other knows that tale but myself, for I swore her to secrecy.” Her face changed into one of delight and joy before Solo’s very face, and he felt a pang of grief that nothing he might do or say would elicit such an expression of emotion from the girl. “This next midnight, you say? What time is it now, Pinno?”

“Three hours past midnight,” he said. “And there is more. I can spirit you away through the walls, making sure you walk unseen: I know that there are old passages in this palace, rarely used save by those who know of them.”

“You are a good man to offer such service,” said Solo. “The lady Renata needs clothing, however: I have no gowns or chemises in my wardrobe, and she cannot go out in this winter naked.”

Pinno nodded. “I will see if I can find aught among the servants. Good night, Eminence.” He shut the door, and Solo reached up to bar it again. 

“I am to be rescued,” said Renata, stunned, as if not believing it. She walked down the hall, her hands trembling at her sides.

“My mother is behind this,” Solo said, following. “The message sent in the coin ordered me to protect you at all costs. I believe some great event may be on the precipice, and you must be safe in the midst of it.”

Renata turned to look at him. “And there again,” said she bitterly, “that word  _ safe _ , meaning, I suppose, that people less terrible than Grandfather will keep me in a gilded cage.”

“Would you prefer to stay here in the chambers of a hypocrite and sinner, then?” he shot back.

Her eyes snapped with fire. “Only if the hypocrite and sinner is willing to harbor a poor silly girl with heretical notions in her feeble mind: what a great burden she must be on his piety.”

“That is not—” Solo began, and cut himself off in frustration. “I did not intend to insult you. I will not ask your forgiveness, as you are not in a state of mind inclined to mercy.”

Renata held her head high and did not dignify his comment with a reply. “I am going back to sleep. Wake me for breakfast, if you would be so kind.” She turned and walked back through the door to his bedchamber, leaving it ajar, and he heard the soft rustle as the bed sank down under her weight.

Alone, he felt he could not bear the weight of his sins.  _ Mercy, mercy _ . Solo went to his study, to his altar, and sank to his knees, welcoming the pain in his body as he prayed to St. Jude for help. He had promised Renata not to do penance on his body until she was safe away, so he could not purify his flesh of his sins, not yet.  _ O Holy St Jude! Apostle and Martyr, great in virtue and rich in miracles, near kinsman of Jesus Christ, faithful intercessor for all who invoke thee…  _ His mind was distracted. Doubt was taking him by the throat.  _ Was _ Saint Jude listening at all? He opened his eyes and looked with dismay at the icon on his altar, by the crucifix and the rosary he kept.  _ Help me now in my urgent need, and grant my earnest petition.  _ He must be listening:  _ someone _ must be— this was a test of faith for him, as payment for doubt. Solo redoubled his efforts to pray, but kept losing his concentration. 

Pain: he must have pain to center him, to mortify his flesh. He would not weaken his body, he would not draw blood: then he would not break his vow to Renata. Solo reached for his rosary and wound the beads around his palm, squeezing hard enough to bruise, hard enough to bring relief. He muttered the  _ Ave Maria _ under his breath, counting twenty of them on his rosary, and when he was done, a dozen small round red marks littered his palm and fingers, like the buttons on his cassock, but his mind was clear and resolved and his doubt had departed from him. 

Solo stood and crossed himself, setting the rosary down. He would sleep an hour or so, here on the floor, wake and pray again, and wake Renata in the morning. 


	9. Chapter 9

Pope Sisinnius Sextus, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop of the Roman province, Sovereign of the Vatican City, and Servant of the Servants of God, sat in his private chamber, seething at the Cardinal who had come to him.

“What do you mean to tell us?” he snarled. “A fleet? What fleet?”

“It is news from a cousin in Naples,” said the Cardinal, looking stricken. “Your Holiness, it is rumored that a fleet will depart Naples to take the Tiber.”

“The Tiber!” shouted the Pope. “And where did your cousin hear this rumor, Cardinal? From a whorehouse?”

“No, your Holiness; he said he heard it from someone on the docks.”

“Out!” bellowed the Pope, and threw a goblet at the scurrying Cardinal. It struck him on the head, and stained his zucchetta with wine. “Where is that accursed Orgoglio? Where is he?”

“Here, Holiness,” said the Cardinal in question, bowing. 

“Did we not pay our debt to Naples?” demanded the Pope.

“We did not,” he admitted. 

“Who was in charge of that?” shouted Sisinnius, rising from his seat. “No, do not tell us: we will remember it. A fleet taking the Tiber: what a ridiculous story. We do not believe a word of it. Naples would never be so bold. Where is that maid you were questioning, Orgoglio?” He sat back down.

“Set free,” said the Cardinal. “She was being truthful. Your granddaughter—”

“Our granddaughter, yes, the cause of all this chaos” sneered Sisinnius. “Yes, yes, what of her?”

“Holiness, it seems…” Orgoglio looked around at the cluster of cardinals and stepped closer to whisper into the Pope’s ear. “She was truthfully a maid before God. Questioned separately, both her and her maid put forth the same tale: that she had her maidenhead before the examination in the Court, that a woman was brought to confirm its presence: its presence was confirmed, and that unknowingly she mounted a horse to ride out with the Duca di Fumoso, and had some blood, but was ignorant of its source until she was examined.”

Sisinnius went scarlet and slapped Orgoglio across the face. The Cardinal staggered slightly, a red mark from the heavy rings bright on his cheek, but held himself upright. “Examined!” bellowed the Pope. “And what witnesses had she, aside from some idiot maid and a woman off the streets?”

“The maid stated, your Holiness, that a cardinal witnessed the examination. The linen she bled on was presented before the Court.”

“ _ What _ Cardinal?” demanded the Pope. “And why was this linen not shown to us?”

“Cardinal Beniamino Solo, your Holiness. She asked for his presence. The maid says she was sorely afraid of the mysteries of the wedding-night, and wished for spiritual comfort. As for the linen, your Holiness had sequestered yourself, and nobody wished to… anger you.”

The Pope’s eyes narrowed, then widened, as if he had just remembered something he had forgotten. “Cardinal Solo,” he said coolly. “Indeed. And where is this Cardinal now?”

Orgoglio frowned. “He remains in the Palace, your Holiness, to the best of my knowledge.”

“And our granddaughter?” snarled Sisinnius. 

“I questioned her several days ago. I was satisfied with her answers, and left her in a cell.” Orgoglio looked perturbed. “There was no… explicit command given as to what should be done with the girl. No one has disturbed her.”

The Pope seemed to find that amusing. “A cell! A cell for our granddaughter, the princess of Rome. How fitting: she has fallen from our grace indeed. Well, go and fetch Solo: we shall question him ourselves.” Orgolio made to move, but di Palatine sat bolt upright. “Wait! We want him stripped before he comes: We do not trust him as far as we could kick him, not with that plotting mother of his. He might hide poison, a knife, anything. You, guard!”

The guard at the door stepped forward at once and bowed from the waist. “Holiness,” he said.

“Your name?” demanded the Pope. 

“Gio, Holiness.”

“Go and get him  _ now _ , and do as we say: have him stripped before he enters.”

“Naked, your Holiness?” The guard’s wide-set eyes looked even wider as he stared at the Pope.

“As a new-born babe,” said Sisinnius Sextus, glaring at the poor man. “Now go, before we lose our patience and have you flogged.”

* * *

“What have we for our breakfast today?” asked Renata, lifting the cover of the silver dish that the page had brought. 

“Bread and honey, hard-boiled eggs, some salt fish, dried apples, and fresh milk.” Solo turned from the window and laid her a plate. “I will have only the fish and some bread. You may have the rest.”

“Nonsense,” she said, settling down in her chair. “You ought to eat more: who knows what the day may bring?”

“Very well,” he said, and took one of the eggs, sitting down. She stole a look at him over the rim of her cup: he looked very severe, in a fresh black cassock, with his hair combed, but he looked tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes, as if he had slept poorly. Renata blamed herself for that: she ought not to have acted so rashly last night, and all her actions seemed to be very foolish in the light of day. Likely he had stayed awake at her side, watching her. Now, however, he was looking at the egg, a small lift to the corner of his mouth that might have been a smile. “When I was a small boy, I stole eggs from the hens on my mother’s estate,” he said lightly, and she could almost see him as a boy: young, a face unburdened by sin, smiling. “Oh, how she whipped me when she found out. I did not understand that the eggs were not mine to take: the farmers and laborers on the estate must have them to eat. She made me go door to door, to every laborer I had stolen from, and beg their forgiveness.”

“Your mother sounds as if she ruled you with a rod of iron,” said Renata, cracking her own egg and peeling away the shell. “I was never beaten by my stewards, not even for picking the locks on the doors: they left that to Grandfather’s judgment.”

“ _ Qui parcit virgae suae odit filium, suum qui autem diligit illum instanter erudit, _ ” said Solo. “No, she was kind: only preoccupied. I often felt…” His voice trailed away, and he looked at her for a moment, as if he was not sure who had just been speaking. “Hm. Eat. You have a journey to make tonight.”

There was a sharp, urgent rap at the door, and Solo froze. Renata twisted round and winced at the pain in her back still making itself known. “What—”

“Stay here,” he said quietly, and stood, the egg forgotten on the table. Renata thought perhaps she might hide: the bed was large, and she might fit under it— but Solo went to the little salon and opened the door to the hallway, and she heard a voice speaking in low, urgent tones. Then, there was silence, and she was on the brink of racing out to find Solo when he returned to the bedchamber, looking very drawn, and at his side was a guard that Renata did not know. She stood immediately, fearful, but Solo raised his hand as if in benediction. “No, this is Gio: he is a friend of Pinno, and means you no harm.”

“My lady,” said Gio, and knelt, one arm pressed to his breast. When he rose, Renata was struck by how delicate his face seemed. “The Pope has summoned you to his chambers to be questioned, Eminence.”

“And me?” asked Renata, shrinking back.

Gio shook his head. “No, lady: it is believed you are still in a cell in the dungeons, where Orgoglio left you.”

“I must be such a little thing to these men,” Renata said bitterly, “that nobody cares at all whether I live or die: I am amazed no one has found out where I am yet.”

“Men do not see what they do not think of,” said Gio, and his eyes met Renata’s: she thought for a moment that there was some secret there, but could not place it before the guard turned to Solo. “Will you come, Eminence?”

“I will,” he said, resolute and pale. “Lady, you must remain here. If it goes badly with me, then I leave you in the hands of Gio and Pinno: you must get her to the kitchens and hide her there until midnight.”

“You may trust us with her life,” said Gio, and nodded. “Come, friend Cardinal. Your trial awaits you.”

Renata darted forward and took his hand. “Do not be afraid,” she said urgently. “I beg you. He can sniff out a falsehood like a hunting dog smells blood.”

Solo brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I have no intention of dying today, lady. I will not be afraid. Our Lord is with me, and you—” He stumbled over his words, looked away, dropped her hand, and went out the door with Gio.

* * *

Orgoglio stood by the great chair the Pope had sat in, raised on a dais at the end of the chamber he had decided to hide away in.  _ Like a rat, _ he thought distastefully. He had once counted himself among di Palatine’s strongest supporters, but after that business in the court, he found himself at a loss for how to act. At least the Pope still thought him trustworthy enough to be admitted into his private chambers: that was a good thing.

The doors opened, and the guard, Gio, stepped in with Cardinal Solo in tow. The guard looked almost ashen as he stepped aside and bowed to the Pope, who did not move, only eyed Solo with a snakelike, languid air. Orgoglio half-expected the man to hiss. “Strip him, as we ordered,” ordered Sisinnius. “We mislike this man: he is not to be trusted.”

Gio turned to the Cardinal. Some small exchange happened between them, and Solo waved his hand. “There is no need to trouble the guard,” he said loudly, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “I will strip myself.”

“We gave a command,” snarled the Pope, suspicion in his eyes. “Strip him,  _ now. _ ” The guard nodded and turned about again with a set face. Deft brown fingers undid Solo’s buttons, and off came the cassock, leaving him in a fine cambric shirt, a pair of dark, loose breeches, hose, and shoes. Gio reached up and lifted the shirt off over his head. Sisinnius looked incensed. “We did not command you to treat the Cardinal like a doll, Gio.”

The guard looked back in uncertainty, and reached forward, tearing the breeches open. The Pope chuckled at Solo’s expression, and sat back in his chair as Gio roughly removed the shoes, tore off the hose, gave the cardinal a thump on the hip with his spear for good measure, and finally ripped the linen drawers away— and there stood Cardinal Beniamino Solo, naked as the day he was born, staring directly at the Pope. He did not seem nonplussed in the slightest, even as Gio stepped away and averted his eyes. Orgoglio looked him over: a still-young body, solidly built, broad through chest and waist: the pale expanse of his skin was littered with bruises and scars, old and new, the newest being the healing cut across his face and the bruises on his back. A few Cardinals murmured: this was a man who wore his penitence on his body, not in his purse. “Shall I approach and kneel, your Holiness?” he asked. 

Sisinnius leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You shall.” He extended his hand, and Solo strode across the marble floor. He had an odd gait: half-lumbering, slightly pigeon-toed, but he was no less graceful for that. Kneeling on the cold floor, he kissed the Pope’s ring, and stood again, stepping backward and regarding the Pope with a blank, open expression. 

“How may I serve you, Holiness?” he asked.

“You may tell us, firstly, what you witnessed the night our granddaughter was examined by some woman off the streets,” said the Pope.

“Indeed,” said Solo placidly. “And I swear upon my immortal soul that all I say shall be the truth. The lady Renata came to my desk in the Vatican Treasury that day: she was in a state of fear and agitation upon hearing the announcement that she should have her maidenhead examined, and we spoke in my office, as it was a… personal and private matter. I should not have liked to discuss such things with every other man in the treasury in earshot.”

“Yes, and then?” demanded the Pope. Orgoglio was trying to avert his eyes: nudity made him uncomfortable, even if Solo had not been the picture of barbarism, so to speak, as it was considered by the Greeks. “What was the manner of your conversation?”

“I asked her some questions, seeking to discover why she was so afraid. She confessed to me that she did not understand what a maidenhead was, nor what was meant by an examination. I explained it to her as well as I could, and she then… it became clear she did not understand what fornication was at all, nor a marriage-bed, having only a child’s understanding of the term.”

“And did you tell her?” snapped di Palatine. “Did you corrupt our granddaughter with carnal notions, Cardinal Solo?”

Solo looked up, some strange expression in his eyes. “Being unwilling to send a girl of nineteen to a marriage-bed with no notion at all of what awaited her, yes: I told her, in as cold and direct terms as I found possible to use. She did not believe me, Holiness, and thought I was mocking her.”

That got a murmur from the other Cardinals. Orgoglio glanced at the Pope, who looked apoplectic. “And then?” he demanded.

“Then she considered, and recalled various conversations, had in innocence with ladies of the court, and maids and such: she understood at last what was meant. She called to mind things they had said concerning noble girls losing their maidenheads by riding horses or other activities, and then became very worried that she might have lost hers unknowing, and expressed a desire that she not displease your Holiness if this was so.”

Every eye turned to the Pope. He sat, seething. “Indeed,” he spat at last, “the girl mentioned something of the sort to us in passing, we recall. What of the woman?”

Solo continued. “The lady Renata told me of a woman known by the maids, a midwife who knew much about the mysteries of women’s bodies, and I vowed I would find her at once, if it would ease her anxious feeling about the examination. I set out to find her that very evening, garbed in plain and simple clothing, and found the woman in a street of Rome, selling herbs and poultices. I brought her back to the Apostolic Palace in secret, and gave her entrance to the lady’s chamber. The maid Bambina was there, as witness. Shall I describe the examination?”

“You need only tell us what the hag found,” Sisinnius said coldly.

“A maidenhead,” said Solo, quite calm. “Intact and whole. The lady Renata was relieved, and thanked her for her work. The midwife was paid a ducat, and Bambina took her out.” A muscle twitched under the man’s eye, so small and quick that Orgoglio thought he might have imagined it. “Afterward, I blessed the lady, bid her sleep well, and departed.”

“And you swear all you have said is true?” demanded the Pope.

“I so swear,” said Solo. “On my soul, by the Holy Mother Church, by the blood of Christ, by the Blessed Virgin: I swear it.” He crossed himself, and the silence that followed was deafening as every cardinal in the room tried very hard to not look at the Pope, while still looking at him. 

The old man looked about himself like a trapped animal. He was caught: all witnesses had given the same story, all accounts were correct, and he, vicar of Christ, had whipped his own flesh and blood unjustly in a rage before the whole of the Court. Orgoglio thought he might know what would come next: di Palatine had never admitted to being wrong in his life. Doubtless, he would demand false witness. “We see,” the Pope said. “And you are sure that she committed no fornication?”

“I am,” said Solo blankly. “I have heard nothing of the sort in any rumor, and her character is beyond all reproach; any man here may give witness to that fact.”

The Pope stood, and Orgoglio did not care for the look in his eyes, not a whit. “It is known,” he said, with a chill in his voice to rival the winter outside, “that she liked Pavo di Damerone and enjoyed his company.”

Solo shook his head. Was Orgoglio imagining it, or did that long jaw tighten with some suppressed emotion? “I tell you, Holiness, she committed no fornication with that man. She never so much as touched him, though she may have liked him.”

“No? Nor some guard, perhaps, that she took a fancy to?” The Pope stepped closer. Solo did not move.

“Indeed not, Holiness. She has a kind heart, and likes to speak to all the maids, guards, pageboys: that hardly constitutes fornication.” 

“And she has never confessed to you the sin of looking upon a man with desire in her heart?” asked the Pope, eyes narrowed. “Never, Cardinal Solo, her most trusted confessor?”

“Holiness,” said Solo, sounding tired, as if he was explaining some simple catechism to an ignorant child of four. “I cannot break the seal of confession: it is my absolute duty to God, as it is the duty of every man in this room.”

The Pope went scarlet as the Cardinals all murmured in agreement, glancing at each other with some shame written on their faces. “We ask you this question under oath! Will you defy the Pope, the vicar of Christ?”

Something came alive in Solo’s eyes. “The Pope asks me to sin. Shall I do it? The Pope demands I break my vows, bear false witness: shall I do it?”

Sisinnius stood, enraged. “God demanded Abraham sacrifice his son, Isaac: was that not a sin? And yet Abraham—”

“Abraham did not do the deed,” snapped Solo, and he had seemed to grow taller, even absent his clothing. He should have looked ridiculous, a naked man in a room of Cardinals, but Orgoglio thought for a moment he looked as David must have looked when he had slain Goliath. “Abraham acted with intent to obey, and the angel of God stayed his hand before the deed was done. When will you stay my hand from the sin of breaking the seal of confession, Holiness? When I open my mouth to break it? After a woman’s small sins of envy of gowns and doubt of the future are laid bare before the whole of the Apostolic Court?  _ When?! _ ”

The last shout rang like a bell through the room, and a moment of utter silence passed. Sisinnius, face purpling with fury, snatched up his walking-stick and raised it, bringing it down with all the force he could summon to smash across Solo’s face. 

It never reached its target. The staff hit Solo’s outstretched palm with a crack loud enough to make every man in the room jump, and Solo snatched it from the old man’s fingers with ease. 

Nobody moved. Nobody dared to even breathe, to disturb the air of that splendid room, and the tableau playing out before them all.

“This,” he said, brandishing the stick as he looked at it, “ah, this.” His dark eyes snapped up to the Pope’s face, and several men fell back instinctively at that black, cold expression.

“Do not strike us,” said the Pope, and suddenly he seemed a pitiful old man, frail and trembling. “Oh, good Cardinal: it was a sin, a sin to strike at you, a sin of anger: we are old, old and weak—”

Solo raised the stick, and the man cringed away, but the Cardinal brought it down over his bare knee, snapping the fine walnut in two as if it was balsa. “You will never strike anyone again,” he said in a voice gone as cold and black as the pits of Hell itself, and cast both halves of the staff to the side. “ _ Et dederunt mihi in testimonium _ ,” he said, looking around at the assembled court. “ _ Vos testes mei omnes. _ ” He indicated his privy parts with a shrug, and that roused some laughter from everyone, lifting the mood of the room. “I will go back to my chambers and pray for your soul, Holiness. You are troubled, and doubtless will want to pray. I find that penance inflicted upon one’s body acts as a great balm to the soul.”

The Pope’s eyes were slitted, and cold as ice. “Go,” he snarled. “Go, and do not show your face to our court again.”

Solo bowed, took up his torn clothes, and left, escorted by Gio, the guard, whose face had remained as still and silent as stone.

* * *

“Oh,  _ signore _ , I am so sorry for it: forgive me,” Gio said, over and over. He was in a state of agitation upon departing the chambers of the Pope, and nothing Solo could say would calm the man. 

“I have said a hundred times you are forgiven, friend Gio. Do not trouble yourself on account of me.” Solo was trying to get his arms back into his cassock, but his mind was spinning in a panic of elation: he had defied the Pope, he had flung the stick to the ground, he had  _ defied the Pope. _ He had not thought himself capable of such a thing; and yet... he had helped to defy di Fumoso, had he not, when he had served Renata in taking the thing he desired from her body?  _ No man may serve two masters.  _ The terror of it all mingled with his joy threatened to choke him. He had not felt this way in years: a decade or more. What would di Palatine do? He could not bring himself to care. 

“It is only, it is only,” gasped Gio, and as they neared his chambers Solo turned and looked at him properly, full in the face, and it was then that he knew he and every other man in the Apostolic Palace had been deceived. 

“You are no man,” Solo said, the shock of it jarring him from his mania. The full mouth, the wide eyes, the narrow chin: all was clear at once.

He— no,  _ she, _ for she was clearly a woman: how could he have been so blind— gave Solo a stunned look. “I—”

He continued walking, eyes ahead. “Peace. I shall not count it a sin: God knows your heart and why you chose to put aside women’s garb to live the life of a man.”

Her mouth dropped open as she ran to catch up. “You will not tell?” she whispered. 

Solo shook his head. “No, and— ah, I see now why you were distressed. I am sorry you had to disrobe me by force and see me unclothed,  _ signorina _ . You are to be congratulated on the achievement of keeping such a still face. I think Orgoglio looked more uncomfortable than you.”

She smiled despite herself. “I have seen many things to shock many men, Cardinal. Get you back to your rooms, and comfort the lady Renata: I am sure she is worried for your safety. I will go about as quietly as I can and listen, for you see now I have two forms I may walk in as I wish, none being the wiser.”

“And what is the name of your form as a woman?” asked Solo, striding along. 

“Jannah,” she said softly. 

“Heaven,” mused Solo. “Is it not the word in Arabic, in the tongue of the Moors?”

“It is,” came the answer, defensive, “and I ask you kindly not to question me further concerning aught of my Moorish faith.”

A year ago, Solo would have doggedly persisted in converting, or arguing. Now, with his victory on his shoulders like a cloak, he could not do so: had he not just defied the Pope, the vicar of Christ? Had he damned himself to excommunication? He did not care. “I will not press you, Jannah. Go and do the work you must.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jannah, and they came to the door, within earshot of Pinno, who was still standing watch. His face was stern, but it softened as they drew closer. 

“How did you fare, Eminence?” he asked.

Jannah answered for Solo, who was buttoning up his cassock. “I was forced to disrobe him, and he still shamed the Pope for his deeds in front of all the cardinals present. I have never seen such a thing, Pinno: I am sure his Holiness will be plotting to get rid of him.”

“Let us pray he does not!” said Pinno, and knocked on the door quickly, looking from left to right.

With a thump and a creak, Renata unbarred the great door and opened it. She was dressed in Solo’s nightshirt still, wielding the crucifix from his antechamber as a weapon, and looking furious, but she halted and set it down when she saw them, relief breaking across her face. He had never seen anything so beautiful. “Cardinal?” she cried. 

“Were you about to strike me with my own crucifix, lady?” he asked, feeling a smile threaten to split his face.

She blushed. “I thought you might be some guard, or another Cardinal: how went it with my grandfather? And why have you no shoes on?”

“I shamed him,” he said, and the delight and shock in her face was enough to spur him on. “He forced me to stand naked in front of the small assembly he trusts most, and I think— I think they have been swayed to our side, and not his, lady.” In a fit of joy, he seized her hands in his. “I broke his walking-stick. Our guard Gio saw it all.”

“No,” she gasped, overjoyed with horror.

“It is true, lady,” said Jannah, smiling widely. “He defied him to his face, and when the Pope asked him to break the confessional seal to tell him your secrets, he refused.” Renata’s eyes went wide and glimmering as she looked at him, and Solo thought for a moment he could die happy, knowing he had pleased her so.

“I did,” he said, “I broke it across my knee and threw it to the floor, and told him he would never strike me or anyone else again.” Renata’s eyes welled as she grinned so beatifically at him that Solo thought his heart might burst, and he grasped her waist and picked her up, turning her round like a man at a dance as she clutched his shoulders in pure happiness. 

“You have done it! Done it! Oh, oh, I could  _ kiss _ you,” she gasped, and flushed scarlet from head to toe as he set her back on her feet, stammering. “That is— I—”

Jannah coughed. “I will go and see about finding you clothing, lady. We might hide you in the kitchens after all: the Pope’s thoughts may sway to you.”

“The kitchens,” said Renata, looking with some difficulty back at Jannah. “Yes. Please, Gio. And keep your ears sharp, that we may know of his thoughts.”

“Yes, lady,” Jannah said, and she and Pinno left the room. Solo let go of Renata’s waist to bar the door once more, and bitterly wished he did not have to release her, but she moved away shyly, back to the door where the bedchamber was, and Solo felt disappointment flood his breast.  _ She misspoke; she does not wish that I should touch her, nor does she wish to kiss me. It was the joy speaking, only the joy, and not the truth… _ but should he not feel glad at such a thing, that the girl felt no desire towards him?

“Do not be ashamed of your words, lady,” he said quietly, following her at a distance. “You spoke in the excitement of emotion.”

“He did not hurt you, did he?” she asked, turning her head back. Her voice sounded strange.

“No.” Solo paused in his step halfway to the door, unsure of himself. “Are you weeping?”

“No,” Renata said, sniffling, then, “yes.” She turned, and he saw her eyes wet with tears. “Oh, I do not know how to feel, what to say, what to do: I cannot believe that anyone has defied my grandfather. I… I am almost angry, for he is never defied, and I did not do it myself. Yet… yet I imagine that he will seek out vengeance against you, now that you have done such a thing. He is proud, and old, and… and I thought I loved him, but I see now that I do not: he never let me love him, Cardinal. Not even when I was a child, and brought him flowers, calling him Nonno.”

“You defied him yourself,” he reminded her, stepping closer. “When you refused to let di Fumoso have your maidenhead, was that not a defiance of the Pope?”

Renata blinked. “Oh. I had not thought of it like that. Yes, I suppose it was.” Her cheeks went very red. “Is it a sin, Cardinal? Defiance of the Pope?”

“No,” Solo said softly. “No, it cannot be a sin to defy such a man as that, and I no longer believe God chose him, but that men did, and that he won his seat falsely.” His hands trembled: to say such a thing was tantamount to heresy, to treason, to— 

“Good,” said Renata firmly. “He cannot speak for God, not when—” but her voice faltered, and she lowered her eyes. “Perhaps he does,” she whispered, doubt filling her words. “Perhaps God revealed to him my sin: the sin of deceit, how I demanded you help me shame di Fumoso.” Her tear-bright eyes found his face again, her cheeks gone pale as paper. “My beating, then, was  _ deserved _ —”

“No,” said Solo, and stepped closer to her, taking her by the shoulders. “No, Renata. It cannot be a sin to deceive that man.”

“But surely—” Tears were flowing now, fast and hot down her face, and she looked up into his face, her mouth crumpling. Solo could not bear it: he took her face in his hands and stroked her cheeks, wiped her tears with his thumbs: he would have pressed his brow to hers, but was too tall to reach, so he settled for speaking gently.

“No, Renata. Hush. Listen to me. You recall the Old Testament: the Book of Judges. Ehud, son of Gera, of the tribe of Benjamin: he was sent to a wicked Moabite king, and pretended it was for tribute. When he reached the king, he said he had a message from God for him, and thrust him through the belly with a sword, hidden on the right thigh; then he escaped, and—”

“And there was peace in the land for fourscore years,” Renata managed, shaking her head as more tears fell. “But,  _ Cardinal _ —”

“So,” said Solo, stroking her cheek, her temple, her hair all in a frenzy of desperation to comfort her even as his voice broke, “so, you see: it is not a sin, for the Bible says peace came from the deception: and as Saint Matthew wrote, blessed are the peacemakers—  _ Rei, _ my sweet child, you cannot think that treatment at his hands was  _ deserved _ : it was not, it was not, and every stroke I laid upon your innocent flesh was as if it was laying my soul to tatters, rent asunder from top to bottom: oh, Rei!” He gathered her into his arms, clutching her to his breast, and she clung to his back, sobbing, her cheek crushed to his buttons. Tears streamed from his own eyes down into her hair, and stung the wound on his face, but he felt nothing, not the stripes on his own back, nor the pain: he was holding Renata in his arms, and nothing else mattered.

Her weeping ceased, and he dreaded the end of it: it meant he would have to let her go once more. “I think,” she whispered, voice rough from crying, “that perhaps I have been deceived all my life, to think that all my purpose and duty is solely to bow to the will of my grandfather, and please him, and I— I wanted to please him, for to please him was to please God. Now… I know not what I must do, nor where I will go, nor what my purpose is.”

“Nor who you must please?” Solo asked, looking down at her as she stepped back and dried her face. 

She gave a sad little laugh. “No, nor that. The thing about the Holy Word, Cardinal, that I think I have seen, is that one man says that it says such a thing, and another says another, and so on until one’s head might spin off one’s shoulders, yet when I read it in Latin, the meaning seems to be none of the things that men have said it means. Of course, I am no priest, nor a bishop, nor a Cardinal, to have great spiritual understanding, but it seems to me that God, who knows when a sparrow falls to the ground, might have made His meaning clear to all people when it came to what He wanted them to do. So, I find myself not knowing any longer how best to please God: my understanding cannot be trusted, as I see through a glass, darkly, but neither can learned men be trusted, since they share my faults, being only men.”

Solo almost smiled. “Indeed,” he said, bending to snatch up the heavy crucifix. “Then I shall go fetch my  _ Vulgate _ , and we shall open it together, and the first verse our eye falls upon, we shall discuss together to see if there be any hidden meaning.”

She clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh, do! It is not heresy, is it?”

“If it is, then God may judge us, and not your sainted old prune of a grandfather,” Cardinal Solo said, and Renata laughed aloud, covering her mouth in shock at the disrespect, then followed him to the chamber where his study and altar lay. He put the crucifix back, picked up his Bible and opened it, shut his finger, and dropped it on the page. “ _ Quam pulchrae sunt mammae— _ ” He choked. 

Renata leaned over his shoulder and finished the verse aloud. “ _ Tuae soror mea sponsa pulchriora ubera tua vino et odor unguentorum tuorum super omnia aromata. _ Well.” Her cheeks turned very pink, along with the tip of her nose. “Ah. The Song of Songs, I see.”

He shut his eyes, heat suffusing his face. “I beg you pardon me.”

“Oh, no pardon shall be given. Translate it for me, Cardinal, will you not?” He opened his eyes, and yes: she was looking directly at him, her eyes snapping with some mischief even as she blushed. She meant to kill him with mortification, surely. 

“As it please you. ‘ _ How delightful are thy breasts, my sister, my bride; more delightful than wine, and the smell of your perfume more than any spice _ .’” He wondered if this was some punishment sent by God to chastise him for daring to speak against His vicar. 

Renata was regarding him with the most extraordinary expression on her face. “No, no,” she said, “you have said it all wrong. You must read it properly, as if you are saying it to your beloved, not intoning as if you were at a funeral mass. Did Solomon not write it for his bride?”

“I—” Surely she was teasing him. “I have no bride, Renata, nor shall I ever have: that was set apart for me the day I took my vows.”

Renata shook her head. That did not please her as an excuse. “Surely you might pretend. How should you say it, were you to say it to your bride, if you had one?”

Solo’s throat had gone curiously thick and full: his mouth dry. “Then I must do as you command,” he said. He wet his lips with his tongue, his heart pounding, and stepped closer to Renata, who remained where she was. “How...  _ delightful _ ,” he whispered, low and dark as if he savored every word, and her eyes snapped up to his as if drawn by some force unseen, “are thy  _ breasts _ ,” and he stepped so close that he could see the gooseflesh rise on her neck, “my sister, my  _ bride _ .” One of his hands ventured dangerously close to the anatomical part referenced, over the linen of his nightshirt, and Renata shivered, turning her head away from him quickly, opening up that pretty bare neck, the line of shoulder uninterrupted—but she did not move away, to signal that he had gone too far. Emboldened, he bent and let his mouth glide just above the skin, not touching her, and sighed gently. “More delightful than wine,” he continued, soft and low, and he let the knuckles of his fingers slip up her neck, up to just below her jawline. She was blushing, she was warm: so warm. “And the smell of your perfume…” Solo’s mouth was so close to her cheek: if he bent and kissed her, what would she do? What would  _ he _ do? He settled for brushing his lips so faintly across her cheek that he could have pretended he had not done it. “...more than any spice.” She did not smell like tuberose, she only smelled like clean linen and almond oil. He did not care. 

“Ah,” she stammered, unmoving. “Yes. Like— like that.”

Solo could not breathe. He felt trapped, his nose nearly pressed into her hair. “Shall we do all the rest of the Song of Songs in such a manner?” he asked, and his voice had dropped low and rough, hoarse with want. 

Renata shifted her weight on her feet, and turned, then— 

Her  _ mouth _ . Her mouth was soft, so soft, so gloriously sweet and smooth and warm; her mouth was on his mouth, her lips on his lips, her trembling little hand dragging his down to cup her breast. Solo felt the pert, firm weight of it in his palm: the hardened nipple under the linen of his own nightshirt, the smoothness and the heat. He groaned into her mouth, his lips moving of their own accord, and his flesh, which had been stirring, half-hard, swelled to full, aching life under his cassock.  _ Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,  _ he thought idiotically, fingers shaking like an old man’s,  _ thy breasts are better than wine.  _ Solo opened his mouth against hers, intending to say something— anything— but instead his tongue found her lip in a filthy slide of soft flesh that almost brought him to his knees, and  _ then _ she returned the action unto him, her tongue slipping across his mouth, her teeth pressing into his lip.  _ Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  _ His flesh desired her, burned for her,  _ needed _ her:  _ it is better to marry than to burn... _

“Stop,” he gasped, clarity ringing into his head like a bell as he tore himself away from her mouth. Tears were slipping down his cheeks, and he felt the pain again, the stinging, the agony as her hands clutched his shoulders. “Stop, I beg you, Rei: I cannot  _ bear _ it, I cannot—”

“Oh,” she panted, eyes bright and cheeks stained red. Her mouth was red and wet, and he could not look at it, would not. “Oh, I— I— I am sorry, I beg you to forgive me.” More tears gathered in her eyes. His fault, his fault: she had been so happy, and now she wept because of him.

Solo let go of her and stumbled away. His belly was all in knots, and his head ached: his eyes burned, his body hurt. He could not stop the tears from flowing: tears of shame, of pain, of grief. “Do you  _ know _ what you have done to me?” he rasped, dragging a hand down the unmarred side of his face. “God in Heaven, Renata. I have never touched a woman, and you enter my life like— some angel, some devil, I do not know what: but I have never done as much penance for the sin of lust as I have these past months. Holy God, have mercy on me; Jesus Christ have mercy on me.” Solo’s knees buckled, and he fell to the floor, gasping out a litany of prayer as he wept, the heels of his hands buried in his eyes. “God have mercy, Christ have mercy; Mother Mary have mercy, Saint Jude have mercy.”

Renata covered her face with her hands and fled the room. He could not move: he could not go after her. The weight of his sins pressed down on him like iron, and he remained where he was, kneeling in supplication on the hard marble floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Latin phrase Solo says to Renata at breakfast is Proverbs 13:24. If you have a Bible to hand, look it up. If not, it's roughly translated as "Whoever spares discipline hates their child, but whoever loves their son disciplines him."
> 
> \- My spellcheck keeps trying to correct "Sisinnius" to "sinusitis" which I find absolutely hilarious. That's not a note or anything, it just keeps making me laugh.
> 
> \- The comment about "barbarism as it was considered by the Greeks" is a reference to, well, the fact that Ancient Greeks had some very interesting and complex ideas about civilization as opposed to barbarians, and one of those ideas was that cultured, civilized men had small, decent little penises and could control their sexual appetites, while satyrs and certain gods and other caricatures of wild barbarianism (including enemy Egyptians!) had... the opposite in a lot of artwork, as a visual symbol of not being able to control themselves sexually. Basically, Cardinal Solo's hanging some serious dong. That's all you need to know.
> 
> \- Ah, Palpy, can't help playing the "I'm so OLD and WEAK I wouldn't hurt a FLY" trick in every universe ever. 
> 
> \- THE BALLS JOKE I LOVE THIS. Okay. Basically, what Solo says first is, "I gave my testimony," then he points to his junk and says "You are all my witnesses," but it's a play on words in Latin because " _testes_ " is also where we get the word "testicles". And he's naked. So _testes autem ad testimonium._ .....nobody is going to think this is funny except me are they
> 
> \- HEEEERE'S JANNAH!!!!
> 
> \- whoever called me using Song of Songs on twitter, yes, you got it, you FOUND ME OUT.
> 
> \- Back to Sunday-only updates! Thank you so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some Surprise Femdom Kink, mention of period typical racism, a religious guilt influenced meltdown, male giving female oral sex.

“They say that Cardinal Solo stood before the Pope and chastised him most piously,” said Lady Falena as she stood at the great table in the Palazzo Organa. “It is also said that the Pope forced him to be stripped of his garments, for fear he might carry some weapon against him in secret.”

“Palatine is fearful, and ever was he prone to derision and scorn, to make his own power seem greater,” said Lady d’Organa from her place at the head table. “I am not surprised that he treated the Cardinal so. What news of the girl?”

“Still safely hidden, lady,” Rosa said. “The last I heard, two hours ago, she was unharmed and still ensconced in the Cardinal’s rooms. He protects her.”

“Good,” said Lady d’Organa. “And the Pope still thinks nothing of her? He will not find out where she is?”

“Likely not,” said Rosa. “I think, madam, that he is more concerned with rumors of war and his Cardinals than with his granddaughter now: he tried to force Solo to break the confessional seal before his trusted Cardinals, and now he fears they too will turn against him.”

“Let us hope they do. What news of the fleet in Naples?”

Schiocco stepped forward. “Duchessa Stretta left at once and has traveled there in all haste, but will not reach it until tonight at the most, lady: she took the fastest horse she possessed. I have written to di Damerone, as you ordered: it may be weeks until we hear from him.” The  _ condottiero _ had a look of determination in his dark eyes. “I will go myself if need be.”

Lady d’Organa nodded. “Weeks it must be. The girl must be taken safely away at once, and without any men, we must get her safe out of Rome. Florence, I think, would be an excellent choice: the Duchessa Stretta has a fine villa in the countryside, guarded well. I have stayed there before. We might send the girl with my seal and a letter, and put her safe away from the war.”

“Shall I give the signal to spirit her off, then?” asked Rosa. 

“Yes, at midnight, as agreed upon: the guard will be changing outside at three hours past, and the fewer eyes about, the better. Cadella?” The maid stepped forward, curtseying. “You will go with Rosa: a pack of maids being silly will not garner any suspicion. And bring her some clothing, for heaven’s sake: the poor girl is likely drowning in my son’s old cassocks, and that shall not do for a disguise.”

* * *

Renata sat primly, her eyes on the board before her. Solo had emerged from his study as she had been amusing herself by using her hair-pins to spring the window-locks open (an old trick Rosa had taught her in Ostia, long ago), pale-cheeked but stern-looking, as if some resolve had settled over him, and asked her politely if she might like to play chess. She was too afraid to ask if he had broken his promise to her and done penance upon his body, but from the way he sat in his seat, she thought it likely. They had therefore sat in that fashion for two hours in his study, at the little table by the window, and not spoken hardly a word, save for when he corrected her movement.

“No,” he said, breaking her concentration as she began to move her rook, “moving on the diagonal is for the bishops.”

“Oh,” she said, moving the piece back and frowning. A complicated game, this chess. She liked it, but it was work to remember what the pieces could and could not do. Renata picked the bishop instead and slid him forward to Solo’s queen piece. “Like so.”

“Yes,” he said, and frowned: her bishop had ensnared his queen on the edge of the board, bounded by her pawn and a knight: he could not move the queen. “Hm.” He moved his king instead, and she slid her last knight to bound it in, trapping him. 

“Ha! Is this— have I won?”

“Indeed you have,” he said. “Which brings our tally to... four wins for me and one win for you.”

“Oh, hush,” Renata said, wrinkling her nose at him. “Why can the queen not knock over the bishops and come to the aid of the king?”

“Because that is not how the game functions,” he said with maddening patience. 

“But in true life, a queen might do so.” She frowned at the board. “It would make more sense if the queen could not move every way the king can move, but if she could break her check and capture a single piece netting in the king…”

“Mm. And we would have a sacrificed queen, the only one on your board, for the sake of the king piece. A sacrifice most grim, I think.”

“Not at all, for the queen is never as important as the king,” said Renata bitterly. “Perhaps she might be traded off to some different board.”

“Renata,” Solo said, sounding exhausted, and reached out, as if to take her hand, but stilled it at the last moment, his pale hand resting on the table, palm down. “Then the bishop might find himself in need of rescuing the queen,” he murmured, and Renata knew he was not speaking about the game any longer.

She sighed. “Yes: then the queen might find herself taken by the bishop, and unable to move.” Renata stole a glance up at Solo. He looked impassive. She lowered her eyes again, feeling bitter. “So the whole board must be burnt: nothing good will come of it.” Her hand stretched out and knocked over the pieces with a clatter.

“It is my dearest hope,” he said softly, “that you do not feel as though I have pinned you down—” Crimson stained his cheeks, and he faltered for a moment. “I— that is to say, that you feel as though you are trapped here, in the company of a man who struggles with sinful thoughts toward you. I will not touch you, as it would be against your will and against God’s.”

“Against my will,” she repeated incredulously. “Against—  _ my _ will? Are you  _ deaf? _ ” She stood, nearly knocking the board over, cheeks hot. “I confessed to you that I desired you! I— I told you that I did not mislike your treatment of me, when you turned me over your knee and struck me like a wayward child on my— in Heaven’s name, are all men so blind? My God!”

“Blind?” he asked, staring up at her blankly. “You— you— I thought you had done it to play, to vex me.”

“I kissed you!” she cried. “I have never kissed a man so in my life: did you think me not in earnest, or a liar, when I said I desired you?”

“Oh, God have mercy,” he said, stricken. “No, lady. No: you do not desire me: you desire the great— the feeling, the emotion and the ecstasy that entered your soul to pierce it to the heart the night I performed my service to you, and I am at fault. I should not have touched you in any other place but the place you asked: I allowed myself to be guided by the Devil, my hands and words and thoughts, and I have done my penance for it.”

“I do  _ not _ desire the ecstasy,” she gasped, feeling as if her whole soul had shrank and withered away in embarrassment. “That is— I should like it again, indeed, but I want  _ you, _ Cardinal.”

“But... you cannot want me,” he said, sounding more bewildered than anything else. “I am— I am ten years your elder— I have killed men, women; tormented them with all the power I could possess. I am sworn to vows of celibacy, holy vows, vows I took when you were a child—”

“And you were a child when you swore them,” she said. “Seventeen, you said. You were younger than I am now, and you had no idea of the things you were swearing never to do: how is that just? How is that correct? Would you force a blindfolded man to swear he will never stand in the sunlight, when he knows not what it is: the warmth of it, the loveliness, the hour when all the world turns to gold? What cruelty is that?”

He was staring at her. Renata could not look away from him: the aquiline nose, the long lashes above his deep-set, soft eyes, the full lips and weak jaw, the high cheekbones and the beauty-marks scattered over his skin like stars. “Rei,” he said, voice turned to a weak whisper, a prayer. “Rei, I cannot. We cannot. I can be your loyal friend, your trusted Cardinal, your advisor, your confidant: I cannot be your lover, nor your husband.”

_ Husband. _ She shut her eyes and called to mind an image, a dream that she had built tenderly to herself over the past days: the two of them, living together, man and wife, in a fine little stone home in Ostia by the sea, where she could hear the gulls and smell the salt air, feel the clean breeze.  _ We would have flowers in the garden _ , she thought desperately.  _ Violets and crocuses, roses and asters. _ He would love to garden, to commune with God silently as he worked with his hands: she would spin wool and tend chickens and goats, and they would be so far from Rome that nobody would ever find them again.  _ And children: a dozen children, children with his ears and eyes and smile…  _ Renata knew then that she was crying. “Please,” she wept, trying to see him through her tears.  _ Please, give me the stone home, the roses, the chickens, the goats, the children: the sea, the sand, the sky; pretend you will, even if you cannot in truth. Please. _

“Rei,” he whispered, and the chair moved, a screech of stone on wood, and he was holding her gently, as if he had forgotten how to do it. “Hush, child.”

“You kissed me,” she wept, and his hands went still. “You kissed me, you put your mouth to mine and I— I—  _ please _ , I only want— I only want to love, to love someone who is not cruel, and you, for your faults, are not cruel, not truly, not like  _ him _ : why can you not let me  _ love _ you?” Renata could hardly breathe for the unfairness of it: she had tried to love her grandfather and been spurned and mocked, and now she wanted to love Solo, in a very different way, and was being spurned yet again: it hurt worse than anything she had ever felt, even the whipping.

“Oh, God,” he said, sounding as if he was being racked. “Oh, God, help me: Rei, if I was any ordinary man and you were any ordinary woman, I would let you do anything you wished to me. I would let you tear the very heart from my breast. But I am not, and neither are you.”

She turned her face to his. “Your vows are more important than I, just as my grandfather’s power was ever more important than I.” Resigned, she crossed her arms over her breast and stepped away, silent anger filling her body: truly, all men were alike. “I see now that I can never be anything greater than a man’s desire for power, or piety, or pride; for I am only a woman.” Saying the words aloud made the truth hurt even more, and she held back more tears as her heart swelled in pain, her throat gone thick and heavy. She would not look at him. There was nothing more to say: he had made that clear. “Forgive me for thinking such things of you, Cardinal Solo. I will do my utmost not to do such sin again: I have been wrong, and I am sorry.”

“Only a woman,” Solo said, and she could not discern his tone or meaning, so she opened her eyes. He was staring at her with a face equally as impossible to make out. “ _ Only _ a woman. By God and all the angels, Renata. Your stubbornness and deception will bring peace and grace: your innocence and sweetness have made you the darling of the whole of Rome, so that your grandfather finds himself without an ally to hand: your actions have made a war all Christendom will thank you for in the years to come, and you think you are  _ only _ a woman?”

She could not think of a thing to say. “I—”

“Come here,” he said, voice gone dark and hard. “I would kiss you again, sin or no. Come, before I change my mind.” She stepped over a pace and a half, and he seized her, clung to her, and bore down on her, kissing her. He was not gentle, not soft, and his teeth pressed into her lip, his nose in her cheek, his hands clumsy, but it did not make the fire suddenly kindled in her belly any less hot. “You,” he gasped between kisses stolen from her mouth in brutal onslaught, “are— never— to— listen to— that old man— again— about your  _ value _ — it is— beyond rubies—”

She could not stand it. “Beniamino,” she wept, clinging to his cheeks and pulling him closer, pressing kisses to every bit of his face she could reach. “I beg you, do not stop: do not—”

He made an agonized sound in his throat as she captured his mouth again, then spoke as she released him, his eyes half-shut. “Truly, I am only an ordinary man, and— and vows can be broken, if penance is— if penance—”

Renata shook her head as he found his way down her cheek, her jaw, her throat: he fell to his knees, continuing down her chest; he seized her hands and lavished them with kisses. “Do you kneel so? Am I your penance, then?”

“I,” he managed, and closed his eyes. She saw the nails of his blunt fingers dig into his palm, and when his eyes opened again, there was clarity writ there. “If I do not— spill my seed, then it is not— a, a, not truly fornication.”

“No?” she asked, terror and delight fluttering in her belly. Her fingers found his brow, and she did what she had longed to do for weeks and weeks: run her hand through the ink-dark locks, soft as silk. Solo’s eyes rolled back in his head for a moment, the whites showing under his flickering lids, and leaned into her touch, plush mouth open. Renata’s heart lurched at the sight, her belly twisting pleasantly: she had made him so with a touch of her hand.

“No,” Solo answered, when he could speak. His fingers were tangled in the linen of her nightshirt. “No, it is not, if I argue that— that the act of wasting the seed is at the heart of the sin: and it is, in a manner of speaking, when one reads the theological works of—”

Renata fought a laugh: he  _ would _ kneel at her feet and hold an entire second Council of Nicaea with himself if given a chance. “Very well, it is no sin. Kiss me again, I beseech you,” she said impatiently.

He did so, standing once more, and did it so forcefully that she found herself backing up, clinging to him, until her backside bumped against something hard.  _ The altar, _ she thought with a sort of distant panic at being so sacrilegious. Cardinal Solo did not seem to care. His hands were working at the buttons on his cassock. She reached up, feeling for them as her mouth felt for his, and undid them, exposing his naked breast, his belly, and further down to— 

“Oh,” she gasped, suddenly aghast as she withdrew her hand from the strange object it had brushed against beneath the black wool. “Oh— that— is  _ that  _ what you meant by a form more conducive to intercourse?”

“It is,” he said, sounding strained. She ventured a look up at him. His cheeks were red, his cassock half-done, and his eyes were wet: he looked to be a man about to come apart at the seams. She made to touch it again, through the cloth, but he shook his head, reaching down and staying her hand. “No: you must not touch me there. I must— I must remain master of my flesh.”

“I thought you said that most men were only a hand’s span in length,” she said weakly, as Solo pressed hot kisses to her neck, down to the shoulder. The mere idea of that much of a man’s flesh made her knees go weak: surely it must be a mistake. She put her hands on his breast instead: he was broad and firm and very warm. 

“I  _ am _ a hand’s span,” he said hoarsely. “My hands. Not your hands. God have mercy, you are soft. Let me see your thigh again; let me touch you there.”

“Yes,” Renata managed, and lifted the hem of her nightshirt, exposing to him her lower half, all flushed and waiting, and in a stroke of inspiration she climbed up onto the altar, her knees open. “Come,” she said, heart beating so hard she thought it might burst. “Come: you must do to me as you please.”

Solo moaned and fell to his knees, laying kisses on her calf, her thigh. “I wish to serve you again,” he whispered, hot and low over her skin. Renata shuddered. “Will you let me?”

“Yes,” she gasped, and he brought his mouth to her most secret parts, and kissed her there between her thighs, and Renata gasped, pressed her hand to her mouth, and planted her other hand to the altar for support as his tongue and lips delved deep. She raised her knees to rest over his broad shoulders, her hand tangling in the linen folds of her borrowed nightshirt. “Oh, oh,  _ Ben,  _ Beniamino, that— that—”  _ Where has he learned this? _ she thought wildly as he licked, stroked, kissed her there as if he was kissing her mouth, with forceful, brutal softness that ebbed and rushed like waves on the shore. One of his hands was curled tight around her thigh, and she brought her thighs in to trap his head on some instinct to keep him close, close, keep him… 

The great flood of delight found her, drowned her, sent her reeling. She cried out in supplication, in relief, in joy, and trembled as the feeling swept her over and drained away, and dimly she heard Solo, felt him groan, felt his hands clutch her legs. She let him go as her body went loose and pliant all over, and he stood, his face gone stern and grim, the hand that had been so tenderly caressing her thigh clenched tight into a hard, pale fist.

That was not right. He ought not to look as if he was going to a funeral Mass. “Beniamino?” she asked, weak and wobbling, trying to sit up properly.

“I—” He grimaced, his crooked teeth bared. “It is nothing.” He opened his fingers and looked at his hand, and she saw the little marks on the palm, red, where he had dug his own nails in to stay the pleasure. “God help me,” he murmured. “And God be praised, I have not sinned, I have not entered you or spilled my seed.” 

“I would that you—” and Renata bit her lower lip hard, shamed by her own wantonness: she wanted to touch him there, to see him. “I— it— does it hurt you very much?”

“Not so much,” Solo said. “Only— only after, when nothing has been spilled, then it becomes painful, and aches sorely for a time, but fades after.”

“Ah,” she said, forgetting her shame for a moment. “And there is no means by which you might relieve the pain?”

“No,” he said shortly. “You know that, Rei. To spill one’s seed anywhere but the womb of one’s wife is a sin: that was the sin of Onan. I have vowed celibacy. I cannot have a wife, therefore I cannot spill my seed at all.”

Renata was undaunted, even with her nightshirt hiked to her waist. “I have read the works of Aquinas. Do you also believe that to spill your seed in sleep is no sin, even though it is spilled?”

Solo flushed. “I believe it is not sinful in itself, as it is not something controlled by the man’s mindful purpose and thought, but may be a sign of some sin of the mind, unconfessed. I myself—” and here he went even redder and looked away, his ears burning.

“Ah,” she said, suddenly embarrassed for him. “No, I shall press you no further: I am sorry. I— I am—” she slid off the altar, arranging the nightshirt. “I am tired, and I shall go to sleep: I know not how far I must travel tonight.”

“A wise decision,” he said gravely, the feverish color leaving his face as he composed himself and did up the buttons on his cassock.

“I will ask,” she said, hurrying in front of him to the door, “where in Heaven’s name you learned to do such things with your mouth. I am sure it was not taught to you by the Dominican friars.”

Solo held the door for her and bowed slightly. “I only— I wished to kiss you there,” he said, shutting it behind her. “I am glad it pleased you: I am your servant.”

“You ought to give me such a Cardinal’s kiss again,” she said, feeling her own face go hot. “If it pleases you, that is.”

Below his left eye, a muscle twitched. “It would please me to please you. I shall tally all these sins to the register I have made, to do penance for... later.”

“Oh, come to the bedchamber,” proposed Renata breathlessly. “It would please me very much indeed, and we have hours to waste waiting.”

Solo froze on the threshold, and she could see his face all alight with panic, with a thousand churning emotions. She waited with bated breath to see what he would say.  _ Please, _ she begged him silently,  _ please, let me love you.  _

“I will let you sleep, lady,” he said softly, and her heart fell. “After you have woken, we will speak of something else.”

“I am not tired,” she said, gnawing her cheek.“I— that was a falsehood, Cardinal, I am sorry: I was— I was trying to lure you into the room. I am truly sick to death of sleeping and walking about: I want to run or ride; I wish... to  _ do _ something.”

If her words affected him, he did not show it. “I see. Yet you are not yet healed. You should sleep.”

“But—”

“Do not tempt me,” Solo said in a low, hoarse voice, stepping forward. “I beseech you, Rei: do not. Every moment I spend in your presence, my resolve weakens further: no amount of prayers or floggings will staunch the flow of it as it drains from me like blood. I will  _ not _ take you to bed.”

“Which sin is worse,” Renata shot back, “the sin of fornication, the sin of onanism, or the sin of breaking vows of celibacy?”

Solo shook his head, dark strands of hair stuck to his brow. “It is not as simple as that: I have not spilled my seed nor touched my flesh to sin in ten years. Before God, that is the truth. I cannot seek out pleasure to shatter a decade of—”

“Of what?” she demanded, angry now. “Of sinlessness? You cannot be sinless, since you did all those things you told me of. Did your purity of flesh assuage your monstrous sins of persecution, or torture, or murder? Did it bring back all you killed?” Solo went very pale, down to his throat, so that his eyes looked black in his linen-white face, marred by the healing wound she had given him. He did not answer. She pressed on, unable to stop: she had found it, the reasoning, and she would not be satisfied until he had answered to her satisfaction. “Why do you cling to it so? Do you believe God holds you in such high regard for your adherence to vows of celibacy when you tormented so many, drove them from their homes, did all the Duca di Fumoso commanded? Will that vow, unbroken and alone among all your deeds, secure you a place in Heaven?”

“Stop,” he said, through lips that hardly moved. 

“I will not. God’s mercy is such that a thief crucified may repent and be with Christ at the hour of his death. Do you think He will see your soul and weigh it in the balance, and give you some crown in Paradise for  _ vows unbroken?” _

“I said,  _ stop _ _!”_ Solo barked, eyes gone wet, and he lunged for her, snatching her by the arm. Renata’s breath stuttered in her throat as he bodily forced her to the wall, his breast pressed against hers, his great thigh shoved between her legs, his arm across her breast. His hand was splayed out over her breastbone, and she felt him trembling as tears fell from his eyes. “You will  _ not _ mock me for the one vow I have never broken as a man of God,” he hissed between his teeth, and she felt such crushing hurt and regret at having pained him so that her own eyes welled. “I cling to it, lady? Indeed: as a man clings to a rock in a storm of turbulent seas I cling to it— without it, I would be wholly lost, damned—”

“No,” she managed, shaking her head. “ _ No _ . You would be forgiven. God’s mercy is useless if you do not ask for it.”

“Without that vow I cannot call myself a man of God,” he said, forcing the words out through his tears. “Without that vow, unbroken, I have no— no—”

“Pride,” she said, and he looked at her with such a desolate and crushed expression on his face that she wanted to comfort him, to take him in her arms and stroke his hair, to tell him it would be all right: but of course he would never let her now. “Forgive me. I am tired after all. I will sleep. Good day, Cardinal.”

He let her go. She slipped from his grasp, curtsied politely to hide her face, and fled into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. 

* * *

Solo watched her go, and his heart sank, even as tears burned behind his eyes and his breath came in uneven gasps.  _ Pride. Pride.  _ He staggered back to his study, barely able to think.  _ She is angry, she says things she does not mean. I am not proud: that is a sin. I take no pride in my vows: they torment me, they torment me… _ But was being gratified by the peace that self-inflicted pain brought to his sinful flesh… not a sin? Or was it a sin, after all? His head spun: nothing seemed to make sense any longer in the light she had cast upon his mind. Solo knelt and saw the wet mark on the altar where he had kissed her secret parts until she had cried out like an animal, where she had been sitting. He reached out a hand and touched it, put his fingers to his lips, tasted her there. She tasted earthy, sweet, musky: she had been like velvet on his tongue as her heat had drowned him, her body had sung for him, and yet in all that glory there was sin, for the Devil made sin seem good and beautiful...  _ To take pride in surviving pain inflicted on one’s own self must be a sin: the true pride ought to come from surviving pain inflicted by another. To take a vow and take pride in not breaking it is therefore a sin…  _ But the vow had been a part of the path of a priest: he could not escape it, and yet… yet he had become a priest at seventeen for reasons— for— 

Solo bowed his head and let the tears fall. Seventeen, hardly a child, and he had shown an aptitude in theology, and Father had been so insistent that he marry soon, that the family become ever greater: Solo had not been interested in marriage at all, preferring to keep company with books, and Mother thought he was simply studious— which he had been, undoubtedly, but he had not cared for the pressures of inheriting such an estate. He had begged to be allowed to join a holy order, and Father had raged like a bull, but Mother had gently said  _ I may yet have other sons, and his uncle comes before him in the inheritance: let him go, Giovanni.  _ So he had gone off to the Dominicans, and there happily had he sworn his vows: safe, he thought, from Father’s expectations, and proud of his holiness, proud of how he had set himself apart.

_ Safe. Safe in my ignorance, turning a blind eye to love, to the happiness of marriage, to the joys of a marriage-bed: and for nothing but a child’s indecision and fear and stubborn heart.  _ He had inflicted it all on himself, and gotten mired so deeply in such terrible circumstances: Uncle Luca had died childless after that, and he had had no brothers or sisters born, so the family would come to ruin... and all for the sake of his own pride. 

“Pride!” he bellowed into the empty room. The walls seemed to ring, mocking him with his own voice. “Pride, all for pride!” He did not know what he was feeling: it was rage at himself, fury at the injustice, grief at what might have been:  _ I would have been a prince, and perhaps she would have been my wife: a union between two houses at war to bring peace.  _ He thought of Renata in golden silks, kneeling beside him at a wedding-Mass, her lips moving along in Latin as they shared a secret look: he thought of Renata calling him her Beniamino and he calling her his Rei, as they shared the marriage-bed. He saw possibilities, endless and glorious and lost forever: Rei carrying their children, Rei running their household with endless sweetness, Rei’s head on his breast at night, Rei’s kisses in the morning, his mother with a dozen grandchildren to dote upon and spoil, a garden full of flowers. A  _ home,  _ a family: one where there were no secrets, one where love ruled above greed and sin.

Solo snatched up the crucifix from the altar where it had fallen and flung it into the corner, where it rang and struck sparks off the stone. He did not care that it was likely some sort of blasphemy; all the world was a singular, bright edge of agony at what was never to be. “ _Damn you!_ ” he screamed at his reflection in the glass of the window. It was blurry, without form: _as through a mirror, darkly._ “Damn you, damn you: you and your pride, your sins: the filth in your soul is as blood, and cannot be washed out: damn you to Hell!” No penance could make it right: he knew that even as his fingers closed around the leather strap, and yet he craved the sweet reassurance of pain, of the knowledge that he was atoning in some way he could feel: but he had promised, he had promised. _I cannot mortify myself,_ he thought, dazed, _so_ _I will ask her to do it._

Solo flung the door wide and saw Renata standing in the open door of the bedchamber. She looked shocked, and he realized belatedly that she must have heard him scream, secondly that he likely looked half-mad, and thirdly that he was wielding a leather strap: it was a wonder she did not run for her life. His mouth was so dry he could hardly speak. “I beg you to administer penance to me,” he rasped. “Forty strokes. Upon my breast.”

Renata’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot be in earnest, Cardinal.”

“I am. I am more earnest than I have ever been. If not my breast, anywhere on my body might do: I have promised not to inflict any more pain upon my back lest I make my body less useful in protecting you, but you may do as you will: I must be cleansed.” 

Renata stepped forth, slowly, as if he was a dog that might spring upon her and tear her all to pieces. She took the strap and examined it: it was a piece from a horse-harness, a good width and heavy enough to not break skin, only bruise. “Then kneel,” she said, sounding unsure. He obeyed. “And— take off the cassock: I should not like to forget where I have struck you,” she added, and he unbuttoned it with fingers that seemed too thick and clumsy to work properly. It pooled about his naked waist in a heap of black, and she eyed the strap again with some wariness. “Forty strokes. Very well.”

She put her foot forward and swung the lash, and pain burst into bright, searing shape along his shoulder and breast. He swayed on his knees, dizzy but grateful: yes, this was true relief, atonement, this was— 

She struck him again: the other breast and shoulder: a third time, across the breast, a fourth stung his belly, a fifth his lower back, the sixth his belly again. Solo found to his horror, that as the strokes went on, his flesh was rising to the savage kisses of the leather, growing, stiffening: he could not stop it, he could not say a word.  _ Crack.  _ The leather snapped across his thigh, and the blow was hardly felt, muffled by folds of wool. “No,” he panted, half-frantic, “no, the  _ bare _ skin—” 

_ Crack!  _ said the leather as she struck him again in the chest.  _ Crack!  _ The edge caught his right nipple, and a searing, horrible burst of lust burned through his body.  _ I am cursed: I am a degenerate soul. God have mercy on me, Mother Mary have mercy on me.  _ Tears were leaking from his eyes.  _ Crack! Crack! _ Solo was so hard he could not stand it.  _ What is happening to me?  _ He could not remember how many strokes he had left, and thought for a blinding moment that this was his punishment from God for turning Renata over her knee: she had found sexual excitement in that action; now he in turn was doomed to never escape his lust, not even through sacred penitence.  _ Crack! Crack! Crack!  _

“That is twenty,” she said, as if seeing his thoughts. He hoped to God she could not see them all. “I shall keep going. You will bruise.”

“Good,” he choked, hoarse and broken. His flesh throbbed, twitched, pressed against the rough wool of his cassock: another ten strokes, and he was trembling on the edge of a knife, sweating despite the chill of the room. He raised his head, seeking her out through the haze of agony and bliss, and found her: looking at him in horror, her eyes wide. Why had she stopped? He could not stand that she would stop: whether for his pleasure or his pain he knew not. He would die if she stopped; he would fall to pieces if she kept going. “Do not— cease not, Rei, I beg you—”

She delivered a blow that cut just a little too high and touched the wound on his cheek, and his body dissolved into utter bliss: white-hot as a forge, glittering as a spear, searing through his bones and reducing him to nothing, nothing at all. His seed was spilling under the cassock in hot, wet bursts: he felt it, and he did not care. Tears streamed down his face as he collapsed to all fours, sobbing for air and groaning like a beast: all that mattered was the piercing relief that cut him like a knife and sent him reeling.  _ Am I dying? Shall I now see God? _ It did not stop, not for an eternity, and he felt as if he would never move again. 

At last it did cease, leaving him loose-limbed and trembling, half-crawling on the floor. His mind was as blank and featureless as a clear summer sky, and his sweat cooled on his brow as he gasped in reedy, wet breaths. “God in Heaven,” said Renata’s horrified voice from very far away. “I have killed him.” Her hands touched his cheek, his brow, stroked his hair away: she felt deliciously soft and gentle. “Beniamino, Beniamino: I beg you to speak to me.”

“Rei,” he murmured when he could form words, raising his head to find her. “Oh… Rei, you have undone me utterly.”

“You are not hurt? You cried out…” Her hands pressed, felt, looking for torn skin, touching the weeping wound on his face. “It is only a little thing. Did it cause so much pain? I will tend it. Come, stand: I will take you to—”

“I cannot stand,” Solo said with some difficulty. “Not— yet. I— I have—” He could not say it, could not make himself say it. “I must… wash,” he said instead, intense humiliation flooding his mind. He could not look at her.

“Oh,” said Renata, sounding very different. “Oh— I… I will bring you water and a cloth, then.” She stood and went to the basin in the bedchamber, and Solo tried very hard to sweep the fragments of his mind back into some semblance of order. He had spilled his seed, but not by his own hand: it had not been controlled by him, therefore it was not a sin.  _ But you bid her do it… even not knowing what end would come upon you.  _ He bit his cheek. Had he known?  _ No, I did not know, I did not, and if I had known it would affect me so, I would not have asked. I would not. God knows I would not have asked... _

She came back with a wet cloth and handed it to him, modestly looking away. “Wash, then. Shall I save the rest of the strokes for another time, or forget them?”

“God,” Solo croaked, lifting the cassock with shaking, weak hands. His flesh was red and still swollen, the inside of the wool painted in thick white stains. It would have to be washed. “Forget them, I beg you. Nothing good shall come of you laying penance on me: I see that now. Forgive me.”

“For what?” Renata asked, her back still turned.

“For—”  _ For shaming myself and spilling untouched like a boy of sixteen, for lusting after you, for all my sins, for yours.  _ “For— for my outburst,” he said, and raised himself to his feet. His knees had gone to water, and he stumbled a moment, then stood. “And for asking you to involve yourself in my penance: it ought to be private, between myself and God, and laying such blows to my flesh must have wounded your spirit sorely.”

“I did not hit you hard, not truly,” she said, turning to look at him. Her nose was pink. “Striking your face was a mistake. I did not know— I did not realize that pleasure might be attained through pain, though was it not so with my own body, the day you administered such to me?”

“I did not know it myself,” Solo said. He was beginning to get a monstrous head-ache, and he put his fingers to his temples: the day had not been kind to him, and he had not eaten or drank much of anything for some time. “Will you excuse me,  _ signorina? _ I must rest.”

Renata looked surprised, but nodded. “Yes, of course: you must be exhausted. Go to your room: I will amuse myself by reading all your books again.” She half-smiled and stepped across the floor, and he thought for a terrible moment she was going to kiss him on the mouth… but her lips brushed his marred cheek, just by the ugly wound. “Rest well,” she whispered, and left him, slipping into the door to his study without another word.

* * *

“Now,” said Rosa to Cadella under her breath as they walked into the kitchens from the street gate. “Head down, and laugh at me: then they will not even see us.”

Cadella did as she was told, and the guard’s eyes slid over them like they did not exist: two girls in kitchen-maid clothing, carrying bundles, shabby and sensible, giggling about something trivial? No, not worth the eyes of a Vatican guard, who lived to serve and protect the Pope from the hordes of unbelievers. The women slipped into the buttery and set down their bundles, stowing them in a cool cellar, and hurried past the table where the butter was being made, the maids working feverishly to churn it. “Now what comes?” whispered Cadella.

“Now we get a message to our friend Pinno,” said Rosa, slipping into an alcove and taking off her shabby cloak and apron. Under it, she had on a fine chemise and gown, of the sort a merchant’s daughter might wear: Cadella pulled the net for her hair out of the pouch at her waist and quickly arranged it, pinning all Rosa’s black locks into a coif. When she was done, the woman looked as if she belonged in the Palace, perhaps as a guest, or someone’s daughter or niece. “You wait here and play the scullery-maid. I shall go and find him.”

“You, there!” shouted a woman, and Cadella whirled, her heart pounding as she saw the great strong arms and red face of a cook advancing. Surely they had not been caught already? “What are you doing to that lady?”

“Oh,” said Rosa, ever so prettily, “my hair-net came undone, and this maid was kind enough to fix it for me. You must be happy here, with Della working so hard in your kitchens!” 

The other woman stopped, looking confused. “Oh— yes, she is very helpful,  _ signorina, _ ” she said. “Della, go and stir the soup that it does not burn.”

“Yes, Cook,” said Cadella as shyly as she could, and ran off, not even looking back as Rosa made her polite exit from the warm kitchens and out the stairs. 

* * *

Having secured Cadella away in the kitchens, Rosa next made the perilous walk through the Apostolic Palace, looking for Cardinal Solo’s chambers. She knew he was on the west side of the building, but the kitchens were on the very opposite side: it was a wonder his food did not arrive cold all the time. Perhaps he did not care.  _ My dear Rei, _ she thought as she walked with her chin up and her hands folded demurely,  _ what have they done to you?  _ She had been eight when she had been sent to be maid to little six-year-old Renata di Palatine in Ostia, and they had been inseparable ever since. Whatever mischief Rei got into, Rosa would fix; whatever dreadful turn awaited Rosa, Rei would handle. Coming to the city had been a change she had not wanted, but even worse was that she had been turned away by the people who now managed every moment of the lady’s day, saying that she was not fashionable enough, not the right sort for a maid— but Rosa was no fool: she knew these people looked at her and saw only some strange Eastern face, a face of the wrong color, the wrong kind to be waiting on the highest princess in Christendom. And so she had been cast aside, Bambina instituted in her place— but for all that, she held no ill will toward Bambina for usurping her seat; the poor woman was only doing as she was ordered.  _ But, _ she thought angrily as she walked,  _ I shall be damned if I let them take Rei!  _

The halls were long, and more than once she was turned the wrong way and only realized it later. Rosa kept her eyes open, and watched, and soon found the stair that took her to the fifth level of the grand building where all the Cardinals resided. She quickened her steps. The sun was still high, but past its apex: she had perhaps twelve hours. 

And there! The end of the hall, the turn, the pillars, the door, Pinno! She slipped up and was glad to see him smile at her. “Friend Pinno,” she said softly, “how goes it with the lady?”

“She is within,” said Pinno. “With him. The Cardinal, I mean. This morning he was summoned before the Pope, and shamed him before all his favored cardinals.”

That was good: the old man would lick his wounds, no doubt. They would have some time. “Where is Bambina?”

“Bibi was freed after giving witness to the cardinals and the Pope himself. I do not know where she is now, but I had heard she was taken from the Palace. I do not know by whom.”

Rosa nodded. “Good: she will be safe, then. I have a maid in the kitchen disguised: I exhort you to get the lady to the kitchen with all haste once midnight comes. I would say earlier, but I am unsure of who walks within where, and when.”

“That will not be needed. I know ways through the walls, lady.”

She almost laughed. “I am no lady! What, can you make the walls into fog or cloud? Are you then some great sorcerer?”

“No, I mean—” and she thought Pinno might be blushing from how he lowered his eyes and rubbed his nose. “No, there are passages in the walls, lady, built long ago. I have used them before, and I may use them again. We would only walk seen to the third level, and there use the secret steps, all the way to the kitchen if you like. There, you may get the lady out as you will.”

“Oh!” gasped Rosa in delight. This changed everything: they might take Renata down sooner and wait in the kitchen for the changing of the guard at midnight. “You  _ are _ a sorcerer, Pinno. I should kiss you on the cheek, were you not wearing your helm.”

This seemed to confound the man. “I— I can remove it, if you—”

“Pah,” she said, grinning. “After she is safe, then you shall get a kiss. Tell her that we will bring her clothes, and she must come with you two hours before midnight, then: the guard changes at midnight, as it does every three hours, and we will get her free of the Palace as soon as can be done.”


	11. Chapter 11

Renata set down Cardinal Solo’s copy of the  _ Metamorphoses,  _ sighing. It was now early afternoon, and pale winter sunlight streamed through the window of the study, falling on the floor. She missed her fine fur wraps, likely still in her wardrobe half a palace away, but there was no use in wishing for what could not be. The linen nightshirt was warm enough, and besides that, she had shut the windows.

She wondered what Solo was doing.  _ May God help him sleep, _ she thought. There had been no pleasure in seeing him in such a state of agony, when he had thrust the leather at her and begged her to beat him, but striking him had been… No, she must not think of it. Renata’s cheeks went hot as she shut her eyes, praying that she would not think of it… 

It was no use. She had liked it: liked it in a different way than when he had turned her across his thigh and given her strokes— standing over a man, having the power to bruise his flesh if she so pleased: now that was a different kind of power. A power she had never felt before, of course— but all the more heady for that. And he had— he must have found it gratifying, or he would not have spilled his seed… Renata swallowed.  _ I did not know men could spill without some touch: that any man might be so tender and delicate.  _ Under the nightshirt, her thighs pressed together unconsciously; her flesh was warming. She could still see every line of his face as he had felt her final stroke, as his eyes had gone wide, his pupils so huge that they seemed black as night entirely. He had jerked back and cried out in what she had thought was pain, but knew now was ecstasy— the relief she knew herself so well (and how much more must he have felt it, if he had not felt it in so many years?). Then he had lurched forward on his hands (the fingers clutching at the floor, the broad knuckles gone white) and he had groaned as if death itself was coming for him. She could still see his face, transformed from its grim and solemn mien to something loose and young and full of bliss, tears running down his cheeks, his full lips parted in a slack circle, gasping for air… 

_ Stop it,  _ she thought, standing quickly and pacing.  _ Stop: he said he cannot be your lover, he said so himself.  _ No, he would not be that to her, but she would content herself to be all she could be to him, even if he would not let her love him. Her own harsh words rang in her head, and she sighed: she had not meant to be so cruel.  _ I should go into the bedchamber and apologize,  _ she thought, stepping to the door. But she halted; what if he should be sleeping? Renata drummed her fingers on her thigh.  _ I will peep in quietly, then, so as not to wake him.  _ She pushed the door open, then stepped to the bedchamber door. It was closed fast, but she laid her hand on the latch and pushed as carefully as she could, putting her eye to the crack.

He was curled on his side on the floor, upon the meager pallet of sackcloth, his back to the door. Renata could make out the pale tips of his fingers resting on his side, and realized he must have his arms curled about his body, embracing himself in sleep.  _ Does he always sleep so?  _ His back rose and fell in a soft cadence, and she knew then that he was sleeping soundly.

Heaven knew why she crept into the room in silence. She wanted very much to see his face as he slept, unburdened by the troubles of life or the sins that she knew he suffered under the weight of. Softly, so silently that she made no noise at all, Renata went to his side and looked down at his face.

Solo looked at complete peace: his face gone soft and quiet as a slumbering child’s. One cheek was flattened against the rough cloth of his makeshift mattress, one hand tucked under his chin, the other embracing his own body, snug between arm and trunk. Renata wanted to bend down and kiss him, but stayed herself: no, she must not. Some of his dark hair had fallen in his eyes as he slept, and she saw in the daylight that escaped through the half-curtained window that it was not truly black, as she had thought it for so long, but a dark, rich brown with reddish color playing in the locks, brought out by the sun.  _ He is beautiful, _ she thought with some strange fear, and softly brushed his hair from his brow. The locks were as soft as silk...

His eyes flew open at the touch. Solo snatched her by the wrist with a guttural cry of terror, and before she could speak at all or make any sound he had flung her down and rolled atop her, eyes wild and breast heaving as he held her down by her wrists. “Oh,” Renata choked, staring up at him. “No, no, I mean no harm— I am sorry—”

Solo seemed to come back to himself, blinking. “Christ in Heaven. Renata?”

He was close, and his thigh and knee were pressing into a very privy place, and a jolt of strange feeling shot through her belly. She wriggled in embarrassment. “Yes. I only— came to see if you needed more— more water, and to see how you slept: I did not mean to wake you.” Lord, but his thigh felt the size of her waist: she pretended to struggle a bit more, so as to press herself against him again. The sensation of pleasure found her again, and she fought to keep her face still, so as not to betray herself.

Solo sighed, long and deep, and let go of her. Renata moved back, away from his thigh, and sat up, blushing. “You ought not to touch a sleeping man, child.”

“Did you think me some assassin?” 

“No. I thought you some spirit sent to tempt me in my sleep.” He ran a hand through his hair and stood, going to the table by the window. “The water is sufficient.”

“Yes,” said Renata, floundering. “I know. I saw it so.”

He turned at the table, holding the pitcher, and gave her a look as he turned it on its end. Nothing came from the pitcher: it was empty, and he had caught her in her falsehood. “Truly?” he asked dryly..

She glanced away, flustered. “I was going to look in a moment.”

“Surely you were,” he said, replacing it. “There must have been some other reason you sought me out: whatever it is, you do not wish to tell me.”

“I wished to tell you I was sorry for the things I said: they were cruel, and I did not mean them. Forgive me.”

Solo gave her a long look. “You are forgiven, then. I know you spoke in the heat of anger.  _ Ego te absolvo.” _

“Is your head-ache gone?” asked Renata, standing. Her mind was reeling with sudden possibilities. That mighty thigh… perhaps she might… she might… 

“It is. What—”

“I have need of— of— service,” she said, knowing full well she was crimson to the ears. “And before you tell me no, you need not use your hands, nor your mouth, nor your male part—”

“Hm,” he said impassively, eyeing her. “I have already changed my cassock. If this is like to make me spill—”

“It ought not to,” she said quickly. “Only, only your thigh I have need of.”  _ Please, _ she wanted to say,  _ please only let me have that, and I shall be happy. _

“My... thigh,” said Solo, sounding as if he did not believe her. "Truly?"

“Yes. See: I will show you.” She took him by the hand to the bed, and made him sit down: he sat, let her pull his knees apart, and let her climb up to his lap. What a marvel: he already allowed her such free use of his body! “Like this,” she hastened to say, and straddled his broad thigh as one might straddle a horse. “And—” Renata sat on him and thrust her lower parts forward a little, and there! There was that jolt of feeling that had found her on the pallet. “ _ Oh _ ,” she gasped, covering her mouth in consternation as blood rushed to her cheeks. “I—”

“Does it truly please you so much?” he asked, looking at her strangely. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “If it be sin, I know not, nor do I care.”

“You had said—” and his big hands came up to hold her waist lightly, to steady her. “You had said you knew not what you wished to do: what pleased you, for you were in doubt, and had spent all your life doing as men bid you.”

“I did,” she panted, rubbing herself down him again: oh, he was so firm, so broad: she could not stop herself. His hands were warm and held her carefully up, so that she might not fall. “I did, I did.”

“Then—” Solo swallowed, his eyes closing, and he spoke in a voice gone as rough and dark as the cassock he wore. “Then you must do as you wish, what pleases you: this man shall bid you do nothing, not any more.”

Renata felt as if with those words some door had been unlocked to her: she clung to his broad shoulders, to the cassock, and leaned close to rest her head on his neck: she shut her eyes against it and ground down again, again, again. She was growing wet: Solo lifted the hem of her nightshirt, and clutched it in his fist. When her tender flesh touched the wool of his cassock, she gave a throaty little cry: it was coarse, and scraped her: the pleasure it gave her crossed to pain too quickly. “Beniamino,” she groaned, eyes still closed fast. “ _ Ah—  _ that is not—”

“Here, this will be easier,” he whispered, and dropped the linen: he lifted her with his hands until she knelt astride him, and he pulled his cassock up and aside. She sank back down on his bare thigh, and both of them made small gasping sounds as flesh met flesh. “Ah,” he murmured, turning his face into her hair, his fingers shaking on her linen-clad back. “Ah… you are very—”

“ _ Oh, _ ” she said, gritting her teeth as her grasp on his cassock tightened. She felt as if she was spurring a horse to gallop: her hips moved of their own accord down onto him, seeking final release. It was happening too fast; she wished to make more of it, but her breath was coming in pants and release was coming to her, coming on her like—

“Look at me,” he said roughly, one hand finding her face, winding into her hair. “Look at me, Rei, my child: let me see you—”

She forced her eyes open and found his face, and Solo's hand was hot and trembling, and his eyes gazed at her:  _ warm and rich, greeny-umber, not black as I thought, not—  _ Renata’s thighs tightened around his, and she wailed out her climax, her body shaking, tightly strung as a cord. She cried his name, and he covered her open mouth with his big hand, hissing urgently that someone might hear: she must be silent. She squeezed her eyes shut, moaning through her nose, until all of that delicious ecstasy had faded away from her body, leaving her loose and tired and pliable. His shoulder made as good a pillow as any: Renata crashed forward and clung to him, panting. “I— I—”

“Shh,” he said softly, his hands coming down to her shoulders, her still-tender back, her waist. “Ah. My Rei. Such a gift you have given me.”

“Me?” she managed, lifting her head from his shoulder. “To you? And what gift was that?”

“The gift of allowing me to see you so undone,” he murmured, stroking her hair in gentle touches with his fingertips. “My God: how I have allowed myself to think of it. A sin it might be, but to see it—” he shook his head. “No. There can be no sin, I think, where there is such beauty.”

She shook her head, smiling sleepily. “Then I ought to thank you for the same, should I not?”

Solo’s face became again a mask of still solemnity, his hands falling away from her. “No,” he said. “No: that was— that was an ugly thing, a thing born from something I ought not to have asked of you.”

“No,” said Renata boldly, reaching to cup his cheek. “No. To see you so—it astonished me, that a man might be so tender in body. I would see it again, if you—”

“Renata,” he said, sounding tired, and reached up to press his own hand to hers. His eyes closed, as if he was praying, and he turned his head away. “You must understand…”

“I know,” she said quickly, shamed. “You took your vows, and you cannot cast them off, not for anyone: I shall not hold it to your account, since I know it is a point of great pride for you, and I—I am grateful that you allow me such free use of your body.”

“That,” he said, the fingers of his free hand creeping between her thighs to feel the wetness on his own, “is because I trust that you shall not cross the line I draw upon our board, and stay to the movements you have been ordained to make.”

“No,” she said, catching her lip between her teeth as his fingers gently rubbed and caressed at her flesh, at the little part that swelled tender with blood, that gave her such pleasure. “No, I— I shall not: I would not force you to— _ oh, _ just to the left, I beg— there, there,  _ ah _ !” She squirmed pleasantly, and he watched her face, listened to her breathing and voice with such intensity of concentration that it seemed he was trying to learn another tongue. When she was near her peak once more, trembling and sweating and body gone taut, Solo held her by the nape of her neck, looking at her with desperate hunger in his eyes, and she gasped out her ecstasy into the air between them, mouth open and wanting, eyes wet. 

“There,” he said softly as she came back down, sighing on his breast. “There: I shall remember that always.”

“And no doubt it shall be a trial in times of temptation,” Renata panted, her cheek pressed into his shoulder.

He cleared his throat. “Indeed, but... how can a man claim to be tempted when he knows nothing of the pleasures of sin? Truly, the temptation has no power when one is ignorant of the— the—” Solo floundered a moment, but soldiered on. “If a man has only bread and water his whole life long, and is tempted by some devil of gluttony who says to him ‘Here, the finest wines, the choices meats, the sweets, the fruits!” how shall the man know what he has missed, if he never tastes it? He will laugh and turn his back, and go on ignorant. But a man who has lived a fine life of luxury, of wealth, who has tasted such food and wine— who then lives a sober life of bread and water, should that devil come to him with such temptations— then that man, withstanding such temptations and knowing what pleasure he rejects,  _ that _ man is more holy, and stronger of character in such a regard, is he not?”

Renata drew her head back, her belly fluttering strangely. “Indeed. So… truly, the man who has only bread and water all his life commits a sin of ignorance, and can never know the true meaning of rejecting such temptation, as the man who knows what luxury and gluttony already does.”

“Yes,” Solo breathed, some light in his eyes she had never seen before. “Yes, that is what I mean to say.”

There it hung, between them, like something palpable, something one might cut with a blade. Renata looked at the Cardinal, and Solo looked at the  _ principessa,  _ and neither of them spoke for a moment. Renata found that her lips had gone quite dry and her heart was thudding in her breast: so now he had argued himself into desiring her, had he? Was that not what she had wanted? Why, then, did she feel as if birds flew inside her belly, beating at her insides with panicked wings?

“Well,” she said quickly, slipping off his lap, “if you have formed such an argument in such a short time, surely you must think on it some more to make sure that you are right.”

“Rei,” he said hoarsely as she got off the bed. His empty hands flexed into fists, then spread apart flat on his lap, his broad, bare leg ludicrously pale against the silk bedcover. “I meant what I—”

“I am sure you did,” she said, her belly turning over and over as if she had swallowed a live fish. “It is only that— it is only that things may be thought in the heat of a passion, and once cooled, the things seem silly. You must consider your argument again.”

Solo simply stared at her for a long, long moment. “You vex me like no other,” he said at last. “God Almighty, woman. I have begged your mercy, I have confessed my sins, I have done penance fit to kill me, I have let you— I have—”

“I know it all, I know; only, it is only—” and she could not look at him for guilt, for the confusion in his gentle eyes. “Oh, very well: it is only that I— I— I suppose I suddenly find myself afraid of the— well— you understand, Cardinal, that when you think about doing something all is well, but truly doing it, faced with such a thing—”

“You are afraid,” he said, realization dawning over his face. He looked down and covered his thigh with the cassock. “Hm. I see. Truly, your grandfather unjustly punished you: a more shy and modest maid, I think, could not be found in all Christendom.”

“You say so, after I have used your body in such crude order,” she protested, unable to look at him. 

“And after I have used my hands and mouth upon you: yes, I say so.” He seemed to be struggling to put his thoughts in order for speech. “If you are afraid, lady, I shall do nothing unto you that you do not command. I am your humble servant. Should you ask me to do anything, if it be in my power, I will do it.”

“Good; then I am satisfied,” she said. The great door to the hall suddenly thumped four times, in Pinno’s familiar cadence, and Solo bolted off the bed and hurried to the door, unbarring it and opening it a crack. 

“Pinno?” he asked.

“Yes, Eminence. I am bid to tell the lady that she must come out two hours before midnight now. The plot has changed.”

“Changed?” asked Renata, shouldering her way into the crack. Pinno jerked his eyes away from her nightshirt-clad body with the neck-opening falling over her bare shoulder and looked directly ahead, flummoxed. “Why has it changed? Has my grandfather discovered it?”

“No, lady: the guard changes at midnight, so they must take you away then.” Pinno did not blink, so intently was he looking at the wall. “I was also bid to tell you that clothes will be brought before you go. You shall not have to borrow the good Cardinal’s night-things.”

“Oh, good,” said Renata, looking down. “Oh! Heaven help me, Pinno: I am sorry. One forgets when one is not dressed properly in days. I shall go: I have mortified you all this time.” She hurried back in, and Solo kept his head peeping out. 

“You are a good man, Pinno,” he said softly. “The Pope deserves far worse than you.”

“I thank you,” said Pinno, eyes flashing with some good humor. “Gio comes this evening to relieve me, and then I will be back at ten o’clock to assist in the escape: pray for us all.”

“I think I am past praying, friend,” said Solo grimly. “You may pray, if you so desire: I think I cannot wring a single drop more of prayer from my body.”

* * *

Cadella whisked around the kitchen in a flurry of flour, sauce, breads, cheeses: olives and tomatoes and herbs and winter roots: she had never been so well-worked in all her life, even though she had been a kitchenmaid once, as a child.  _ Dear Lord, they work these poor cooks to the bone! _ No sooner had a dish been sent up to one Cardinal than another must be done, and all of different sorts: the cooks seemed ready to pull their hair out. 

Being down here, however, gave her a chance to see where the doors were, out to the courtyard where the carts came bearing foodstuffs: there was a long walk across a cobbled yard, and then out the gate under the walls, which were patrolled by guards. She noted their numbers and movements as she could, and kept them in her mind: it would be useful for later.

In the chaos of preparing for dinner, Cadella stole aside and checked the bundles under the pretense of going to the scullery. Yes: a plain brown  _ gamurra _ to go over a simple chemise of linen: wool stockings, sturdy shoes, a cloak with a hood, and things to dress the lady’s hair: pins, thread, a cap. Cadella hoped this lady Renata was not one for much fuss: there would be no time for anything fashionable. 

“Della! Back to the stove, girl: the goose sauce wants stirring!” She raced back and got a blow on the ear for her efforts. “If Orsini’s dinner is spoiled, he shall have  _ you _ to thank!”

* * *

In his great chair, the Pope sat alone, brooding over an empty room. His Cardinals had filed out one by one, some with pious words, some with fewer words, and he found himself gripped by anger: how dare they speak so to their Holy Father? He would call down armies, call down hell and wrath and ruin… but the more he sat in icy stillness, the more he considered. His allies had mainly all come through di Fumoso, and with that man’s departure back to Genoa, all hope of an army was lost. True, he had distant relations in Venice, but they could not be trusted: he had handpicked Renata from a slew of grandchildren and grand-nieces and nephews, and look where that had put him! No, they were not to be trusted: that was, whatever remained of them after the last plague, and the poisonings before that. 

He sat so, di Palatine, and called to mind his first memory of Renata: she had been two or three years old, dressed in a gown too big and somehow too small at the same time, and she had done her little curtsey as her mother and father had looked on with terror in their hearts: all of his bastard children and cousin’s bastards hoped the same for their sons and daughters— to be chosen by Cardinal di Palatine, as he had been then: to be lifted up to glory and power. He was no fool: they looked to their children to lift them up as well. Power-hungry, grasping, greedy: oh, how di Palatine loathed them all, and even moreso had he loathed the names they gave their children, all hopeful names, names that spoke of their longed-for futures:  _ Regina, Principe, Trionfo, Cesare, Gioiello.  _ It truly had been a mercy, that they had all died: di Palatine was not keen on having any competition to uproot the jewel he had found in Renata.

Little Renata (and how he had disliked that name:  _ reborn _ ) had done a little curtsey and looked at him boldly, and he had seen the steel will there in those light brown eyes, even at two, and she had said, “Welcome,  _ Nonno _ . Now I done. I go play.” Her mother had cuffed her, and her father had shouted, but di Palatine had laughed— laughed! The servants and even the mice had stood still to hear that laugh. 

“A wise one, this Renata,” he had said, and enjoyed the hope springing in their eyes. “She knows what she wants, and is not afraid to say so. Yes,  _ nipotina _ , you go play: find your maid.”

One never liked to allow a child too much freedom, or too many authority figures, and soon she forgot her parents entirely. Truth be told, di Palatine could not remember which of her parents was his own blood, and which was not, nor did he much care. Renata went to Rome with him, living in the palace he used as a Cardinal and being brought up as well as he could force her to, until he had sent her off at ten: the city was unhealthy, another sickness or other had struck, and off to Ostia it was, to the villa he kept.  _ That was a mistake: I ought to have kept her here at my side _ . The salt air and wind had made her dull and silly and slow, and now he had no great piece to play nor jewel to prize: that was clear.

The Pope stared at the two pieces of the walnut stick that still lay on the floor where Cardinal Solo had flung them early that morning.  _ Two pieces. Two. It is some sign: one stick may be broken easily, but two sticks together cannot be broken, not by the strongest man alive. _ Two sticks: Solo was one, an irritant like a nettle, but a useful toy to have close by when dealing with that French bitch of a mother of his—his granddaughter was another. And nettles ought to be grasped tightly, so they could not sting...

Sisinnius sat upright suddenly. When had the girl last been seen? She had been in prison: had no one fed her? Had she died?  _ Fool! She is the last piece you have, however small: you ought to have kept her in sight! _ “You!” he shouted at a guard passing the door, who jerked his head in at attention. “Get down to the dungeons! Take us there at once! We demand to see our granddaughter!”

* * *

The sun set over the city of Rome. Renata stood at the window in Solo’s study and watched it as it lowered further and further, gold turning to red, burning her eyes even in its weak winter form, the shadows growing long.  _ The last time I shall see Rome, God willing _ . Her eyes watered, but she did not turn away from the window, not until the scarlet had turned to dusky purple and the world looked cold and barren outside. 

“Come away from there,” said Solo, gentle as a lamb. He had been unfalteringly careful all afternoon: he had played chess and let her beat him, read her books aloud to amuse her, and even told her a story of his father, Captain Giovanni Solo, and his astounding voyage to Alexandria in half a week, and how he had brought home treasures from tombs of ancient times: golden bracelets, rings, jewels. Renata had listened in interest and curiosity, but now she knew her time in the gilded cage of the Apostolic Palace was nearly at its end, and she was filled with a desire to run, to shout, to dance: she must  _ go! _ She sighed at him and began to pace, hopping a little, skipping about the room.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Practicing, lest I be set upon and find I have forgotten how to run,” she said testily. “Oh, my legs are in want of a good hard race: I am too young to be kept up like this for days.”

“Indeed you are,” he said. “Run about, then, as you please: I shall not stop you.”

Renata felt almost wicked as she began to run about the study: she had been severely chastised for running indoors as a child, and could not remember the last time she had done it. The unused muscle in her legs and body sang with delight as she stretched them, used them: up the hall, down the hall and back up again! She could not be stopped: she was a deer, a horse, a foot-racer. Into the study! Out again! Into the bedchamber! Solo watched her from the window, half a smile on his face, and she whirled with her arms out in the middle of the hall, laughing: how free it felt to move as she pleased! “I might be a Maenad,” she said, laughing. “A madwoman in a fawn’s skin, flinging serpents about: what think you of that?”

Solo shook his head, amused. “I think you are ready to be rid of this place.”

She paused and let her arms down. “You are right. Only a few hours, I keep saying to myself, and I shall surely be free.”

Such a great thudding and knocking burst from the door, then, as if to shake it off its hinges: Solo went pale and ran for it, unbarring the door and opening it wide. Pinno rushed in, all of a dither, his face slick with sweat: he was in his ordinary clothes, not his armor and uniform. “Lady, lady,” he panted, eyes white and huge in his dark face, “you must get to the dungeons at once,  _ now: _ I heard at the changing of the guards that his Holiness is going there to  _ find you _ —”

“Oh, God,” said Renata, her face going cold. Solo reached for her, but she brushed him aside impatiently. “No, no, I shall not faint. Quick— my old chemise, the one I was wearing when I—”

“Burnt,” said Solo tersely, “all stained in blood.” 

“Then I will go naked,” she said sharply. “We shall pretend that I was stripped. Is there a faster path to go?”

“Come with me and ask no questions,” said Pinno, and pulled her through the door, Solo following close behind, as dark and foreboding as a shadow.

* * *

They ran through the walls, entering from a secret door so cunningly made that nobody could have ever guessed it there: to Renata it seemed a miracle. The inner passages were cold and musty and cobwebbed, but she raced along in her bare feet, mussing her hair, grasping the soot off the walls and rubbing her face with the smuts, pulling down the nightshirt, staining her body all over, whatever she could reach. “I must look as if I have been in there for days,” she explained to Solo, following Pinno. “You must take your nightshirt back and hide it, or burn it: something so that they cannot find it, or they will ask why it is sooty.”

“Here,” said Pinno, and ushered them through an arch. A door lay in the stone, and he tugged it open with a groan. Solo sprang to his aide and they got it ajar enough for them to slip through, and Renata marveled at the work of the secret door: it seemed to be seamless from the outside. They were in the dungeons: a long, dank hall with wooden doors, barred with iron on either side. Torches burned. She shuddered: this was a place she did not like. Pinno snatched the ring of keys off the wall: no other prisoners were being kept here, so there was no jailer.“This one,” he said, unlocking a door and urging her in. She marched inside, turned, pulled the nightshirt off over her head, and shivered in the cold, her breath smoking as she held it to her bare body. Solo advanced, but looked only at her face: something indescribable was in his dark eyes. “Hurry,” said Pinno urgently, looking down the hall. “They are coming. I must lock it—”

“I will return for you,” Solo said firmly. “I will. I swear it by God Almighty and the Holy Ghost: Renata, I  _ will _ come back for you.”

“Go, then,” she whispered, shivering, and thrust the nightshirt at him. “Go, get you gone and stay out of his clutches!”

“Rei,” he murmured, and kissed her brow. “Play your part well. God be with you.” Then he was leaving, the door shutting, and Pinno locked it: she caught one last glimpse of his face, white as paper, before she heard the jingle and clank of keys put back, the footsteps faded, and she was utterly alone in the dark. 

She hated the dark. Her feet tingled with fear, and she drew them in close, sinking down on the straw-covered floor. Quickly, she put straw in her hair, and tangled it up: there were small hard things in the straw that she prayed were not rat droppings, though if they were, all the better to make her look abandoned and forgotten. She heard footsteps down the hall, and voices: torchlight flickered in a square patch outside the door, faint and far.  _ If I make myself believe it, truly, it is not a falsehood. _ Renata lay down in the cold, dirty straw on the hard stone.  _ I have been here for days. I have not eaten, I have seen no one, I am so cold, I am ill… _

The keys clanked. The door creaked open. She lifted her head, suddenly blinded by the torchlight, and heard the gasps and murmurs from men: guards, she saw, crimson-robed cardinals, and among them all… the Pope in gold and white. “My God,” said someone. “The poor child,” said another. “Someone get her out, put her in—”

No! No, if she was taken out, she would never be free: the plan would go to ruin. She must make them leave her here. What could she do to achieve that? “Leave me!” she screamed, so loudly and with such a hoarse tone that several of the men jumped in fright. She flung a handful of straw, and they backed up, but the Pope watched with his glittering, snakelike eyes. “Go! Take the light! Oh…”  _ Mad, mad, I must pretend to be mad.  _ It was not hard, with her hair in her face and rat dung smeared on her cheeks. She made her eyes go wide, looking directly at Grandfather. “Flowers, flowers, Nonno, look, I picked you flowers.” She thrust a handful of straw at the Pope, who finally stepped back, and Renata let out a cackling laugh, rolling onto her belly. “They took my fine gown, my shift: I think I see angels who speak, oh holy Grandfather. Oh, they come, they say things to me in the night. Go away. They will not come if you are near, and I long to see Heaven.”

“Angels?” whispered a guard. 

“Mad,” said a Cardinal. “She is utterly mad.”

“Who took her clothing?” hissed the Pope.

Renata dragged her nails across her face. “It was dark, so dark: oh, Grandfather, I cannot bear the dark, and they left me here,  _ left _ me here…” Tears welled up, real tears, born of panic, but they worked all the same. She let out a crying wail, and tears fell down her cheeks, mingling with soot and filth, before she collapsed on her breast, gasping. Straw was in her mouth. She did not care. “The angels. They say I am like to die, and that Heaven will be beautiful… like Ostia.”

The Pope shook his head in denial. “She is feverish. She is not mad, she is only feverish. What has she been eating?”

“Rats,” said Renata, and smiled brightly, hoping there was soot on her teeth. “O, how small they are, but if you…  _ catch _ them—” and she slapped her hand out on the floor, making the cardinals all jump in horror and disgust. “Yes. Take me up. Take me back. I wish to tell everyone, Grandfather, about the angels and the rats…” She crawled toward the men on hands and knees, making them recoil. 

“No, no, that— that—” Grandfather had gone almost as white as his vestments, and shook his head, starting back. “I— not prudent, cannot—” 

The guards and cardinals all turned an accusing eye on him. “You have left your own flesh and blood to go mad in this cell!” shouted Orgoglio’s voice, and Renata knew he was a sort of friend, even if not a trusted one. “Perhaps we should take her up: let all of Rome see what this Pope does to his sweet and gentle granddaughter, who would not harm a dog: mad, eating rats, and conversing with angels!”

“No,” said di Palatine, whey-faced and crossing himself. “No,  _ no _ : keep her down here, leave her water and— food. Of course. Food. We will not parade her about Rome like this: she ought to be confined.” Out of the corner of her eye, Renata saw a guard she recognized: deep skin, wide eyes.  _ Gio.  _ She prayed silently that the man would be safe. “Bring her food. Someone bring her food. And bring us Cardinal Solo!”

Renata rolled to her knees and started bellowing the Paternoster, and that at last got the pack of them out: half of them crossing themselves and the other half running as fast as their feet could take them. She continued shouting until the last echoes had faded, and even then kept on: who knew who might be listening? When she had lost her voice, she lay on the floor and let the chill take her. Lord, but it was cold. She could not stop trembling. Both her hands clutched her arms, and she drew her knees to her breast. Where was Pinno? Cardinal Solo? Had they been discovered in the secret ways? What time was it? Where were her rescuers?  _ Please,  _ she prayed silently, in case someone was listening,  _ please let them come, and soon. _

* * *

“They have gone,” said Pinno softly, listening at the crack of the door in the wall of the dungeon. The torch he held was sputtering, making the Cardinal’s face an ever-changing mask of shadow and light. “We must get her out—”

“I heard him demand my presence,” said Solo tightly, his lips pressed into a line. “He must suspect nothing. I will— where is the nearest way out?”

“The lady is like to freeze,” said Pinno, torn. “I cannot go and fetch her, Eminence. A Vatican guard carting off the naked, mad  _ principessa? _ If I am discovered, someone will accuse me of molesting her, or worse: they ordered food to be brought, so if she is missing too soon, they will suspect.”

“Damn me,” hissed Solo under his breath. “ _ Damn  _ me.” He paced a moment, then whirled on his heel. “You go to the kitchens. Get those women and tell them what has happened: they can go under pretense of bringing her food. Have them get her out, and tell them to bring her to the kitchens: she can warm herself there. I will go to the Pope.”

“Yes, Eminence,” said Pinno, heart pounding in his breast. “Shall I give the lady a message from you?”

Solo halted mid-movement, his eyes black as night in the torchlight. “No,” he said, and if his mouth was trembling, Pinno marked it down as the fault of the flickering torch. “No. Only go, and go as if Hell was following behind.”

* * *

Rosa, garbed as a chamber-maid, was busily attending to the linen in the washing-room. The steam was like to make her sweat through all her clothes, but that was no matter: she bore down on the pole to lift the clean things, and dropped it immediately as the door burst open and Pinno came hurtling in, Cadella in his wake. “Pinno?”

“You ladies must get you to the dungeons at once and take the lady Renata some food and clothing.” He was sweating, his skin gleaming in the lamps, and Rosa immediately wiped her hands on her apron. 

“Dungeons? What can you mean?”

“The Pope was seeking her out. We had to put her there to keep her safe, and keep him unsuspecting. The Cardinal is going even now to see his Holiness, summoned: the lady sits in her cell, naked and frozen, and you must go and remove her at once.”

“We cannot take her here,” said Cadella, looking stricken. “Neither can we take her from the Palace at this hour: it is early yet.”

“Then take her back to the Cardinal’s rooms! Only do not let her sit in there, half-frozen.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Rosa quickly. “We will bring her warmed wine and something hot to eat, and Cadella— get the clothing we brought. We shall go to her, and dress her, and take her to the Cardinal’s chambers.”

Pinno nodded sharply. “I will seek out my friend Gio: he will know of what the Pope has been thinking, since he was on duty near him tonight. Go, ladies.”

* * *

Cardinal Solo strode into the chamber that the Pope was holding court out of at this hour. He had looked at his reflection quickly to ensure all was as it should be, and after a tell-tale smut was wiped off his cheek, he looked a perfect picture of solemnity in his cassock.  _ There is no use waiting, _ he thought grimly, forcing himself to walk. The Pope looked as if his temper was high, and he resolved to be on his guard.

He knelt at the chair, a good ten feet back, genuflecting. “Holiness,” he said. 

“Solo,” snapped the Pope, and Solo’s guard went up: he must tread with care. “Our granddaughter languishes in a cell: we have seen it with our own eyes. Did you know of this?”

Solo forced himself to blink, as if stunned:  _ it is no sin to lie to this man,  _ he had to remind himself. “A… I had not considered it, Holiness. I knew you had ordered her to be questioned: Orgoglio himself questioned her days ago, and left her there.”

“Why?” demanded Sisinnius.

“Why… for your Holiness had not commanded aught else to be done with the  _ principessa _ .”

The Pope looked like a frog, swelling up in indignation. “You shall not place this blame on us.”

Solo made himself look as serene and bland as a milk pudding. “Blame? Why, there is nobody to blame, Holiness. It was a simple error. Surely your Holiness can be forgiven: it is entirely understandable that one might forget one’s granddaughter when one’s primary concern is… support in the Holy See.”

Sisinnius looked as if he was not sure whether Solo was mocking him. “You did not go to her? To minister to her?”

Here he must tread carefully: half a lie was easier to swallow than a whole lie. “Once. Orgoglio bid me go the day he questioned her, two or three days back. I went down to see her. She was cold, and sorely hurt, and had not been given food, but wore a dressing-robe: I prayed with her and inquired as to the state of her meals: nobody seemed to know what was being done about her.”

“Then who stole her robe?” hissed the Pope. “Why was she left naked?”

Solo swallowed down his revulsion at what he knew he must say next, but he  _ must _ make the Pope believe Renata was of no use to him, and if that meant judging her value by the measure the Pope judged it, so be it— “It is likely that in the absence of your Holiness’s orders, some guard or other may have found it amusing to take the lady’s garments.”

“Garments?” said di Palatine, eyes narrowed. “Who would dare treat our granddaughter so?”

“Without your protection, Holiness…” Solo shrugged, affecting a slump, as if the weight of guilt rested on his shoulders. 

“Think you that perhaps she was molested?” asked the Pope. 

He allowed himself to look stricken. “It may be. How did she seem when you visited her?”

“Raving mad,” said di Palatine, voice like stone, “as a dog.”

“God,” said Solo, and let a shadow cross his face. “God help her, and God help all who should have protected her, then: I have heard that such violence upon the body of some innocent maid may turn her mind to madness. The poor sweet girl.” The fury and disgust that he felt within played across his face, and he saw di Palatine noted it with some interest. That, then, would be his card to play. “It was...  _ my _ duty: I was her confessor, her friend.”

“Your duty,” said di Palatine, and latched upon that idea, that angle of blame, just as Solo had known he would. “Yes,  _ your  _ duty: you have failed in it, and let the jewel of Rome be despoiled.”

Solo slid to his knees, head bowed: he must secure her safety, even if it meant his own soul was to be further hauled over the coals. “Yes. I have sinned most abominably. What must I do, Holy Father, to earn your forgiveness?”

The corner of the Pope’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “Our forgiveness? Yes. You will get out of our sight at once: we are disgusted with your uselessness. Go do penance for your sins: fifty lashes will begin to make it right. After that, you will return to us and we will consider other ways you might make yourself…  _ useful _ to our causes, and so blot out this great transgression of yours.”

“In the name of God, I swear I shall, Holy Father,” said Solo, and knelt, kissing the great ring on that withered old hand.

* * *

Renata was so cold. She had never been so cold in all her life: always there had been a fire, a fur wrap, a warm cup of wine or hot milk.  _ I am a di Palatine, _ she thought bitterly.  _ I can bear this, I can bear anything, if I can only live one more day.  _ Her feet and hands were numb, and the straw she had tried to cover herself with served to only make her itch. It seemed to be hours: where was Pinno? Where was Cardinal Solo? Had the Pope discovered them both, and hauled them off to be killed? She could not bear the thought: Solo, strung up like some common thief— Pinno, head torn from his body— no! No, it could not be. How long had she been here, in truth?

Movement and speech at the door roused her, but she could not move for the cold. The door opened, and she screened her eyes from the torches, cringing away in fear… but the voices were women’s voices, and one especially was dear to her, dear above all. “Rosa?” she whispered through numb lips, her breath smoking in the air.

“My God,” said Rosa’s voice, “she is half-frozen, and blue in the face.”

Renata began to weep. She could not help it: hands sat her up, cast cloaks about her, rubbed her face and hands and feet, and still she wept, whether from fear or pain or relief she did not know: her dear Rosa, here in Rome! The other woman was a stranger to her, but had a kind and open face, her flaxen hair braided up and covered under a modest cap. “We brought you mulled wine,” she said quickly, and held the cup to her lips: Renata swallowed it down and sighed in relief as warmth found her body once more. She held her hands out to the torch the girl carried, seeking the heat it gave.

“Where is Pinno?” she managed, wiping her eyes. “The Cardinal?”

“Pinno has gone to find his friend Gio, and discover the Pope’s intentions,” said Rosa, rubbing her hands to bring blood back into them. “Cadella and I are to get you to the cardinal’s apartments at once and keep you there safe until two hours before midnight. Where he has gone, only God knows: Pinno said he was summoned before the Pope.”

“Summoned. Yes, I heard Grandfather say so,” said Renata, clutching the cloak tightly. “Then I am at your command, and must go where you will take me.”

“Pinno told us of the secret ways, but we do ont have him to guide us, so it will be wiser to walk seen, and pretend you are a maid: nobody will notice you, and if they do, they will overlook you.” Cadella tucked the cloak snugly about Renata: no one was like to know she was naked beneath if it was close enough. “We shall take you back and bathe you, then dress you as a chambermaid, and nobody shall be the wiser.”

“Let us go, then,” said Rey, lips pressed tight together in resolve. “And may God protect us all.”

* * *

Solo shut the door of his chamber and crossed to his table, pouring himself a cup of wine. He did not ordinarily drink, but he felt this occasion called for an indulgence, if only to stop his fingers shaking for a brief moment.  _ God help me, _ he thought dismally as he drained the cup. Useful: he would have to be useful to the Pope, and whatever that entailed, he knew he would not like it. Sisinnius would likely demand he unearth his mother’s secrets, force him to play some sinister role in the war to come: it would try his soul, his heart… but Renata would be safe, and he thought for a moment he could bear it all for her sake.

The door opened. Solo whirled, snatching up the knife on his table in sudden fear— he had forgotten to bar and lock it!— but dropped it with a clatter when he saw who was entering: three maids, all in warm cloaks. He blinked, and realized to his shock that one was Renata: she was pale as death and streaked in filth: he recognized Cadella, a maid of his mother’s house, but the third was a stranger… and yet not, for he recalled that face beside Renata’s, the day she had first come to him for confession. It seemed a thousand years ago.

“Cardinal,” said the strange woman, “I am Rosa: I come on behalf of your mother with Cadella. We will wash Rei and set her aright at once, then take her down to the kitchens when she has recovered.”

“Beniamino,” said Renata, eyes fixed on him, some great emotion swelling in her face. He could not look at her: he had promised to return for her, and he had not. Guilt wracked him. 

“You ladies must use my rooms as if they are yours: I myself will stoke a fire for her bath,” he said, avoiding Renata’s gaze: he could feel her eyes fixed on him, welling with confusion and hurt. “Are you the one who carried messages betwixt my mother and I, Rosa?”

“I am,” she said firmly.

"Then bless you for doing it, at great risk of your own life: you are a dauntless lady indeed."

Rose acknowledged that with a little nod and tugged on Renata’s arm. “Come along, Rei: we must wash you clean…” Her voice faded as they all went into the bathing-room, and Solo went out into the room behind, stoking the fire to warm the water for the bath. It was hard work, and the ache in his back served to ward off the guilt that surely would come down on his head like a millstone if he stopped for a moment. 

Poor Rei, left alone in the dark and cold with nothing but her wits to protect her against the wrath of her grandfather. Solo shut his eyes, allowing himself for a moment to feel pride in how she had outwitted them, but it was overshadowed, made all pale and wan by his guilt at abandoning her in the dungeon for so long, and for what he had sworn to do.  _ Heaven help me, _ he thought as he wiped his brow with his sleeve. The fire was hot by now, and he wondered for a moment if this little sooty room was like unto Hell: would he be cast there after all, for his sins of lust— or of pride? He rubbed his stinging eyes and hurried out, the cold air of the hall washing over his skin. 

* * *

Renata sat in the hot water, her knees drawn up to her breast as Rosa and Cadella scrubbed her clean. No matter how pink her skin became, or how much steam rose from the water, she felt as if she was still cold, somewhere deep down in her heart: something had frozen beyond all thawing. “What shall be the manner of my departure, then?” she asked, letting Cadella rinse out her hair. 

“We shall take you to the kitchens, dressed as a maid: nobody shall notice a thing,” said Rosa. “Pinno will help us, should we need the secret ways: if not, he can go ahead and be our protection. We cross the back courtyard at the stroke of midnight: the guards change, and we may go unnoticed. From thence, we walk across Rome to the house of Lady d’Organa, where awaits a carriage to take you to the villa of a lady in Florence, where you may hide yourself: the Pope will not be able to reach you through the people of Duchessa Stretta.”

“And you shall come with me?” asked Rei anxiously. “I do not know these people at all.”

“You must trust them,” said Rosa. “Lady d’Organa is as fine a woman as ever walked this earth, with a keen eye for strategy: she will keep you safe. There will be a war, or close to one.”

Renata shook her head, giving a bitter laugh. “And why does the lady need me? Some strategy? My grandfather cares not whether I live or I die; if she thinks to stop him doing anything using me as a ward, she knows precious little of him.”

“Dear Rei,” Rosa scolded, “do not be so gloomy. It is not for that reason that she desires you close to hand, but for your own knowledge of how the Pope might think or work, what his allies are, where the most important castles and houses lie. Surely you heard so much, at his side so often?”

Renata’s mouth fell open in astonishment. Suddenly, all those long-winded speeches on which bishop had which Cardinal and which cardinal had vice and virtue and money and lands and estates came flooding back, clear as day, and she  _ knew: _ she knew suddenly and intimately that she mattered in some way beyond her sex, her position, her birth: she was important to these people, vital, a part of something larger. “My God,” she said faintly, and closed her mouth. “I— yes. I see.”

“There.” Rosa helped her up, and she stepped out of the bath, the ice inside her breast cracking a little. “There, you see: you will make a queen yet.”

“Queen,” said Renata, and fought a teary laugh. “No, dear Rosa, no queen am I, only a sad little ruined  _ principessa. _ I will get dressed: it is cold outside, and winter is coming on fast this year.”

On went the linen shift, the plain brown gown of wool: on went the stockings and shoes, warm for the journey. Rosa helped her with her hair, combing it all out and braiding it up again: never again would she wear the elaborate braids and coils and curls of the court, nor the pearl nets of gold and silver. A plain linen cap, of the kind any maid might wear, went on and tied beneath her chin, and she was ready: Renata di Palatine, princess of Rome, had become only Rei, a little chambermaid, a kitchen-maid, a nobody. 

They left the bath and went out to the bedchamber. Solo was kneeling on the hard floor, his sleeves rolled up: he clasped a rosary between his pale, tensed hands, and he was praying in Latin, soft and low. Rosa curtsied, along with Cadella. “Eminence,” she said. “Forgive our interruption. Here she is. Will she do as a maid?”

Solo took a deep breath, sighed, and opened his eyes, standing. He looked at Renata as if he could see directly through her, as if she was not there, and it hurt her to see her beloved Cardinal treat her so.  _ Look at me! _ she wanted to cry.  _ Look at me, can you not see me?  _ But she could not move, only stood silently with a lump in her throat as he nodded tersely. “She will do. You have both done well.”

“You mother—” began Cadella.

“I beg you,” he interrupted, sharp and harsh, “not to tell me aught of my mother: tell me she is dead, if you must say anything. I am no longer to be trusted with such things.”

“What do you mean?” asked Renata, shocked.

Then he looked at her, and she trembled under that gaze, so full of misery and loathing was it. “I have sworn to serve the Pope wholly,” he said, mouth twitching between words with some awful emotion. “I have made him trust me once more: it was needful in order that you depart from this place without notice. He now thinks only of how he shall use me in this war, and not of his poor mad Renata, locked away: no, do not look at me like that. It was necessary.”

“But he is wicked,” she gasped, unable to stop her hands from twisting in the skirt of her gown. “Wicked, wicked as di Fumoso: how could you?” Then a thought struck her, and she smiled suddenly. “Ah! I see, it was only a trick to move his thoughts to you. Of course you have  _ said _ such things, but you will return to your mother’s house with us when we go, will you not? So you shall not truly be his tool in the war to come: it was a clever falsehood. Is that not so?”

Solo did not move, did not speak.

“Is… that not so, Cardinal?” she prompted again, confused.

“Rei,” said Rosa, very softly.

“No,” said Renata, turning on her friend with bewilderment. “Why, you cannot think to leave him here; what will we tell his mother?”

“Lady d’Organa already knows,” said Cadella. “She said that we must think with reason, and that the more people are found to be missing on the morrow, the more people the Pope will suspect of betrayal.”

“I will not allow him to be left here,” Renata insisted, her heart beating madly. Leave him? Leave her dear friend? Never!

“Rei, you must think,” implored Rosa. “The only people gone next morning will be you and two maids nobody will remember, if they indeed remember us at all: you will seem to have been spirited away by angels from your cell.”

“Yes,” Renata spat, “common people may believe so, but who do you think will be beaten, questioned, at the Pope’s orders? Pinno shall be, and so will Gio: they guarded Solo’s chambers! The Cardinal himself will be questioned, whether by word or by—” and here her voice broke, tears spilling over. “I cannot leave my friends, and you cannot leave without any eyes within the walls, either: someone must stay—”

“Lady,” said Solo, and his voice was so soft, so unlike his other tones, that the other two women exchanged glances. “Lady, you have a kind heart; kinder than we deserve, but three maids were seen going up here, and three must be seen to go down, else someone suspects you hide behind these doors.”

“I will not allow you to stay behind,” she said, her throat heavy with tears. “I command you to come with us; you said if I commanded you aught you would do it, so you  _ must— _ ”

“It is not in my power to do so,” he whispered, helplessness in every word. 

Rosa took Cadella by the elbow. “I think,” she whispered, “we ought to let them speak in private: I see there is great friendship between them, and I hear Rei was oft comforted by him.”

“I think you are right,” said Cadella in low tones. “Come, let us go to the outer chamber.”

“Rei,” said Rosa softly, “we leave you to speak with his Eminence. We will be outside when you are finished,” and the two women left, shutting the bedchamber door behind them, leaving the lady and the Cardinal quite alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I have officially finished writing (I think??) the whole damn thing. There will be 20 chapters!  
> \- Someone needs to cast Billie Lourd in a damn period piece NOW.  
> \- Rome doesn't get THAT cold, but I imagine the stone acts like a refrigerator down in the ground. Brrr.  
> \- Solo: [sees Rei have two consecutive orgasms]   
>  Solo: actually hold on maybe it's not a sin to fuck if uhhhh it means i REALLY understand what I'm uhhh denying myself hhhhuuuhhh  
> \- HAPPY EASTER!   
> \- wow what could happen next it's a total mystery I have no idea


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- no cws for this chapter but mind the tags as always, they update with every chapter!  
> \- what's happening in this chapter? YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS, BITCH  
> \- As per my own dumbassery, while I was being concerned about offending Catholics, I totally forgot that a lot of people are squicked by priest kink!! I have updated the tags to reflect this and I am also requesting that if you talk about this fic on Twitter that you use the tag #SWWfic or use the word "priest" somewhere in the post so people can filter content and not see something potentially triggering!  
> \- SEE YOU NEXT SUNDAY!

When the women had gone out, Renata remained where she stood, her eyes damp. Solo took a single step towards her, his rosary still clutched in his hand. “Rei,” he said miserably. “Rei, you know that if I could go with you, I would, and happily, if only to protect you, but I cannot.”

“Please,” she whispered, extending her hand to him. She knew not what she asked for: for him to take it, perhaps, and for them to run madly from this forsaken place? For him to seize her and embrace her? For him to take it gently, and pray over it, whispering words of comfort and spiritual guidance?

Solo did none of those things. Instead, he came closer, stiffly, looking at her as if he was some wild beast and she a princess set on taming him, and bent his knees, kissing her outstretched hand, letting it touch his cheek: the thumb, the fingers, the palm. He should have looked silly, foolish: he did not look either. Renata felt her legs go to water, her knees weaken. Both dark eyes stared directly at her, never moving from her face, not even when she dropped her eyes to his mouth, his soft mouth that found her fingers, kissing the knuckles in obeisance. “Rei,” he whispered again, and he sounded so utterly lost that she could not bear it.

“How can I leave you here in this place?” she asked, and stepped closer, cupping his face in both her hands. He had not shaved in some time, and the shadow on his chin and lip caught the lamplight; rough under her hands one way, smooth the other, like velvet. “How can I leave you at his mercy?”

“God will be with me,” he said, but he did not sound sure.”And if— if God forsakes me, then I shall think of you, and that will be enough to see me through the trials to come.”

“Indeed,” she said dryly, her hands falling away, “I expect you shall think of me often, and then do penance—”

“No,” he said, a strange roughness of emotion permeating his voice as he reached up, covering one of her hands with his. “No. I shall think of your kindness: your mercy, your tender heart, your stubbornness, and your defiance in the face of evil: you have been like the sun shining on all my dark days, Renata di Palatine, and I will never forget you. Not if I die tomorrow at the Pope’s command, not if I live to be a hundred.”

“The sun?” she echoed.

Solo nodded. “Yes: you have borne down on all my blackest sins, brought them up like poison, and yet you warm me, bring me comfort, bring me light as I have not seen in years. How can a man forget the sun? How could I not think of you in my darkest hours?”

Renata could not breathe. Tears welled up, flowed down; she wept aloud, and Solo took her and pulled her to him gently, and she went willingly, sobbing against his chest as he embraced her. “I cannot leave you here,” she cried. “I cannot; they cannot ask me to do such a thing—”

“It is my just punishment; I left you in that dungeon when I swore I would return for you,” he murmured into her hair. “I will willingly atone for it.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It matters not, I was gotten out safe—”

“I _swore_ to you,” Solo insisted, voice breaking, and it was then Renata knew why he had not been able to look at her when she had come in: guilt, guilt over his failure to keep his promise. How could she say it had been nothing? That it did not matter? _Guilt,_ she thought angrily, _guilt on guilt, piled on over the years: he must have this burden lifted, and I would see it gone, for without it he would be a different man._

“Then you are forgiven,” she said, pulling back to look up at him as she wiped her eyes. “Forgiven, do you hear me? I shall hear no more of it.”

“Yes, lady,” he said stiffly. His eyes were red and wet, and he looked away for a moment. “You must not think… in the days to come, that aught of this was your doing: it would grieve me to think of you placing the blame on yourself.”

“I will try,” managed Renata. “And you… you must not be so cruel to yourself when I am gone.” She wiped her eyes. “You will need your strength to fight against him.”

“I will try,” Solo echoed, and wiped her tears with a thumb, as tender and careful as if she was a child. “Thinking of you… that will strengthen me, lady.”

“And this too, I hope,” she whispered, flinging caution to the wind; she stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, his rough, warm cheek, the one unmarred by her hand. Solo went very still and did not move, and she remained there, trying to balance on her toes as she clung to the shoulders of his cassock. “Will you remember it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, low and rough. “You… need not have given it to me: the memory of the first kiss you gave me would have sufficed.”

“That is like saying that a single word from a book will serve to give inspiration and great thought,” she said, heart pounding in her breast with the audacity of her own words. “You should have many kisses, so that you might draw something new from each.”

Solo’s head turned toward her, his nose pressed lightly to her cheek. “Not strength alone?” he murmured.

“No,” she said, stroking the hair from his brow. “No: I would give you all the virtues of God: strength, and also faith, and hope; peace, and joy; kindness, patience, and— and love.”

He made a sound like he might weep, and crushed his cheek to hers, breathing hot in her ear. “You have forgotten two,” he managed, “the virtues of temperance and meekness.”

“I do not wish you to be meek or temperate,” she stammered, heat gathering in her cheeks. “I want— I should rather you be—”

“Overbearing and wild as a beast?” he asked, and closed his teeth on her ear, nibbling softly. “ _Rrr_ ,” he growled. Renata giggled in spite of herself, and he released her, pulling away and looking at her in the eyes with a little half-smile.

“Only… keep your rage saved for who merits it,” she said, and Solo sighed deeply. “Will you swear that to me? That you will bring justice on those who deserve it?”

“I swear it,” he whispered. “On my soul, my immortal soul, I swear I will bring justice to those who have harmed you. Oh, Rei…” He shifted, bringing his body closer, and she felt something pressing along her hip: either he had a dagger concealed under his cassock, or—

“Ben,” she gasped, and he opened his mouth, cheeks flushing: like as not, he would beg forgiveness, cringe away, be shamed. That would not do, not now: she was sick to death of shame and self-hatred. Renata caught him by the cheeks just as he was muttering an apology, and pressed his mouth to hers with all the force she could muster. 

He was just as soft as she remembered: yielding, trembling, opening to her. A moan escaped his throat, and she was desperate to hear it again as soon as it had faded. She could taste wine on his tongue, rough and smooth at once, and remembered how he had kissed her below: heat rushed her body. _I ought to take something off,_ she thought wildly, suddenly wishing he could touch all of her at once. The lacing on her gamurra went to below her waist. Renata reached up and tugged at the knot, undoing it and pulling at the laces: she must have his hands on her, all of her…

“Peace,” he gasped, pressing his brow to hers. “Oh, God. Wait, wait a moment—”

“Should we— the bed?” she stuttered, thumbs tangled in leather cording as she looked up at him.

“The—” Solo looked at her, and it was like a dam breaking: something behind his face had shaken free, been loosed; something was flying wild at last. “Bed. Yes. How much time—?”

“They said they would wait for us,” said Renata, heart thumping wildly as she crawled up, still trying to undo the laces. “It is not yet half-past eight.”

“An hour and a half,” he muttered, following her. He still clutched his rosary, the string wrapped about his palm, but his dazed eyes were fixed on her face. “Not enough time.”

“For what?” she asked, confused as she slipped the warm shoes off.

“For all I would do,” he said darkly, and reached up to unbutton his collar. The beads of the rosary clacked, and Solo looked down, hands stilled, as if shaken out of his trance at the gravity of the sin he was about to commit. “I…” He looked at her, torn. “Rei, I do not know if I can—” She got the _gamurra_ unlaced, and slipped it off her shoulders, then opened the front of the shift and let it down, wrestling her arms free until all the fabric piled in a scratchy heap about her waist and left her upper half bare. His eyes went straight to her bare breasts, and his cheeks became bathed in a crimson stain. “Holy Christ,” said Cardinal Beniamino Solo, who never before in his life had taken the name of the Almighty in vain, his voice absurdly high and cracked. 

“I want you to touch me,” she managed, hardly able to look at him. 

“ _Yes_ —” He climbed up on the bed, both cassock and rosary forgotten, and cupped her breasts in hands trembling so hard that Renata thought they might fall off: the hard, cold beads pressed into her soft skin, and she pressed her thighs together, wriggling in delight at the feeling. “Rei,” he choked, lifting and pressing and squeezing. His thumb passed over her nipple, the flesh there stiffening to the touch, and did it again, looking awed at the effect. “Might you allow me to kiss them?” he whispered, eyes darting to hers in sudden fear.

“Yes,” she said, confused as to why a man would wish to kiss breasts: were they not for feeding infants? But he laid her down on her back, and his arms held her: his lips pressed into her soft flesh, and his tongue laid wet stripes on her skin. Soon her breasts were wet and reddened, the nipples gone hard under his ministrations, and she was fighting not to cry out in want, one hand pressed to her mouth. He raised his head to look at her, his chin resting on her breastbone, and she thought that he had never been more beautiful: his mouth gone red and swollen, his eyes fever-bright. “Ben—”

“You are so… lovely,” he breathed, closing his eyes as if that had been all his desire in the world. “I thought… I thought of doing that the day I saw you in the upper galleries, the day di Damerone came: I did such penance for that sin. Such penance.” He pressed his mouth to her breast again, sighing: a gentle puff of warm air made her shiver.

“You ought to have not done so,” she said, reaching out and trailing her fingers through his hair: his silken, soft, dark hair. Solo looked up, suddenly unsure, and she corrected herself. “Penance, I mean. Not— I liked your kisses there. Tell me, what else have you thought of doing?”

His nostrils flared as he shut his eyes and breathed deep. “This,” he said, and turned her face to its side, so that she looked away, then laid a mass of sloppy, wet, open kisses on her arm, her shoulder, her throat, her jaw. Renata trembled to his touch: she was sure by now her skirts were wet under her body, but she could not move for fear he might depart her in shame. “My Rei,” he murmured, stroking loose strands of hair back from her cheek. “Your hair… I would beg you to let it down for me.”

“It will have to be rebraided,” she reminded him.

“I can do it,” said Solo, fingers playing at the pins that held it to her head, loosening the strings of her cap.

“Very well,” said Renata, and sat up, giving him time to hastily arrange himself as she unpinned the braid and finger-combed the still-damp locks out across her shoulders. It was past her waist, and the bed smelled of almond oil as she put the pins aside. “There: you must take care with it.”

Solo reached out tenderly and took a lock in his hand, then ran his fingers through the silken strands, all the way down past her waist. “This, too, I dreamed of doing: the day you were presented to the Apostolic Court.”

“Did you truly?” she asked, smiling.

“I did,” he said, and brushed it away from her face. “I wanted— God help me, I wanted to blind every other cardinal in the _Sala Regia_ , so that they might not even look at you.”

“I think a few of them are blind already,” she said very seriously, and Solo blinked for a moment, then laughed aloud for the first time, his face transforming from that long, dour mask into boyish delight. His teeth were very white: the front ones were crooked and broad, the eyeteeth long and pointed. He did not compose himself at once, and kept smiling; as she pressed her hand to his cheek, it became something shyer. _I would see him smile so every day, every moment._

“I can… I can take off my cassock,” he said, as if offering something he was not sure he should.

“I would take it off you,” she said quietly, and he shut his eyes, nodding tightly as she reached out, undid the little scarlet buttons, the buttons like rubies, like drops of blood. She tugged it off his shoulders, pulled his thick arms from the sleeves, and there he sat, black wool pooling behind him, nothing but his linen drawers on beneath. Renata reached out and traced the broad lines of chest and shoulder, the meager softness of belly, the beauty marks that spangled his body like the night stars. His flat, pale nipples were soft to the touch; she caressed them as he had touched hers. Solo’s breath began to come in small, short spans as she touched him, and she looked up to see tears in his eyes. “Oh! Have I hurt you?” she asked anxiously, taking her hands away.

“No,” he forced out through quivering lips. “No.” The tears spilled: wet tracks trailed down his face, glimmering in the lamplight.

“But you are weeping,” she said, reaching out to stroke his face, wipe the tears flowing down his cheeks with her fingers. “Pray tell me what—”

“It is nothing,” Solo gasped, breast heaving, voice breaking. “Only— only I did not know it would feel like this; to be touched so by anyone.” He dragged the heel of his hand across his eye, a sob escaping his throat, and Renata let out a soft exclamation of pity, moving forward and wrapping her arms about his broad chest, pressing herself close. Her body was aching for him, but she must practice temperance in some ways: she saw that now.

“I did not know either,” she confessed, looking up at him when his breaths had begun to come slow and even once more. “I must be careful with you, I think.”

“With me!” he said, laughing through his tears. “As if I was the timid maid, and you the man?”

“We are both maids here, yet not, I think, very timid,” said Renata. “Shall I— I mean, how is it done?”

“Done?” he asked, not understanding.

Renata gestured vaguely. “Yes, you know: the— the act. Does one lie down? Or— do both lie down, or must we assume a position like that of a... a horse?”

Solo half-choked. “A horse! No. I think…” and he paused, unsure. “I think... we two must both lie down, face-to-face.”

“Oh,” said Renata, and lay herself down on her side, her heart beating like a panicked little bird in her breast as Solo carefully lay down to face her. He was very close and warm, and smelled of incense and wool. Still clutching the rosary in his hand, he shut his eyes and muttered a prayer in Latin, then sighed, opened his eyes, and reached for her skirts. Renata lay still, not knowing what she should do, until he had pulled up all the wool to gather about her middle, exposing her stockinged legs and her female parts.

“This,” he said softly, and gentle as he could, cupped her sex: one thick finger parted her, and Renata caught her lip between her teeth. It felt strange, although she dearly wanted it: and she could not quite see what he was doing. “You are… very warm. Soft.” He moved his finger, and she blushed to hear the slick sounds from between her legs: yes, now she felt warm again. “Wet,” he whispered. 

“I want to—” She reached for the drawstring on his linen drawers, and he stiffened, pulling his hand from her and seizing her wrist to stay her hand. “Beniamino?”

“Do not,” he managed, eyes wide and trembling. “I— I am afraid that if you touch me there, I will shame myself and spill my seed.”

“Then I shall not touch you.” She waited, and he swallowed hard, then let go of her, and instead she wriggled closer, until the hot, thick length of him, under the linen, was pressed against her thigh and hip. Solo let out a guttural groan. “Is that—?”

“It is,” he said, sounding stifled as his arms closed round her. “Closer— can you—”

She could not. The great thick folds of brown wool blocked her from lying any closer. “Too much gown,” she said, irritated, and wrestled herself out of the heavy _gamurra_ and the linen shift, casting it aside and lying back down, pressing herself to the full length of his body, and he shuddered, holding her close.

“A pity. I would have liked to... lifted the skirt up and had you against the wall,” he breathed against her temple, and her body suddenly felt alight with desire: yes, she would like that, too, but even moreso she would like to be taken by him _now_ , in only her stockings. The only thing barring her from commanding it of him was the apprehension of the unknown: the flesh in his drawers that he would not let her touch, even as his hands drifted down and skimmed the curve of her naked backside.

“I want to see you,” she begged. “All of you.”

Solo swallowed, his pale throat moving. “Yes, but do not touch me,” he whispered, and she moved back to allow him space: he undid the strings with clumsy hands, tugging down the linen drawers and letting his member spring free—

Renata clapped her hand over her mouth in shock. Whatever she had thought lay beneath the cassock, this was not it. The object was longer than her hand, and looked thicker than her wrist: she looked away in an attempt to steady herself. When she looked again, she thought it looked not quite as frightening in size as she had thought at first, but still imposing. “Oh,” she said weakly, and looked back up at his face. Solo looked wary, as if he did not know what she might do to him. What should she say? What could she say at all? “I… am not sure it will fit, in the manner of which you told me intercourse is done—”

“I…” He looked suddenly doubtful. “I had not thought it might not. I have not heard of that ever being a barrier between men and women.”

“No? Then… I suppose we might try: if it does not, then sin will be avoided.” She glanced back down. “Shall you… put it... there, then?” 

Solo’s breath left him. “Yes. Yes, I…” He reached down and grasped himself in hand, his eyes closing a moment as his fist slid down the length and back up, breath coming in sharp little gasps. Renata watched in interest: the broad, rounded tip was a rosy color, and he used his thumb to spread some wetness about it. “I have not… done this, touched it so in…a very long time.” His dark eyes flashed up, taking her in, and his mouth trembled. “Lie down. Raise— raise your leg a little; let me see you.”

She did as he told her, on her right side with her left knee bent and thigh raised, and Solo wriggled closer, pressing his fingers clumsily into her as if to be sure he had the place right, his eyes bright with feverish emotion. “If it does not fit—” she began, heart pounding.

“It _must_ ,” he panted, and drove himself between her legs. The blunt, wide head pushed at her body, but did not enter, and Renata bit her cheek: that did not feel correct, nor did it satisfy anything. Solo withdrew and tried again, cheeks stained crimson, but the next thrust sent his flesh sliding between her thighs. He spluttered. “Oh, _da_ _mn_ me—” 

“I think you ought to let me do it,” Renata said quickly. “I think you should lie on your back, if it does not pain you too much, and let me sit above.”

“Pain me?” He blinked. “As long as you touch me so, I would feel no pain at all, not even were my limbs being torn from my body. My back, then.” Solo rolled to his back, his broad chest heaving with deep breaths as he tried in vain to center himself. Renata sat up and considered: on his back, the offending organ seemed to point up toward the head of the bed. She could, then, sit upon his lap, and take it within her at her own pace. 

“Now, then,” she said, and threw a leg across his waist, as if she was mounting a horse. Solo grappled for the bedcovers and held on for dear life, as if expecting an attack. “No, no,” she said, smiling. “Not yet, and I shall touch you only when I must. First, I think I must be kissed again.”

“Ah,” said Solo, staring up at her. “Indeed, come down here—” and he reached up, gripping her naked waist and pulling her down until she was lying atop his breast, his hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her as fully and deeply as he could. When his lips let her go, Renata shivered: her body had warmed to him urgently, and demanded him: there seemed to be a great emptiness inside her, a gulf that wanted filling. “Rei,” he whispered as she shuffled clumsily down his body, the warm head of his flesh meeting her between her thighs.

“I must touch you now,” she panted, stroking his hair. “Do not spill.” The dark locks had fallen away and uncovered his ears: they were large and curved outward, and she longed to kiss them, too.

“Christ help me; God help me,” he whimpered, and went rigid, clutching the rosary so tightly that the beads dug into his hand as she reached between their bodies, rearing back up to better position herself. He was hot to the touch, and very hard, but the skin of him was soft and smooth and moved a little, like a silk glove on a hand. “ _Christ_ , mercy, Rei, Rei—”

She brought him to the proper place and took a deep breath: it might hurt, likely would hurt, but she must have him: she _must_. It seemed very straightforward now: the parts would join, and it would be that thing called intercourse, and they would come apart after. “You must be quiet,” she gasped, and began to ease him in slowly, the slip of skin on skin smoother with the wetness of her flesh, of his. 

It was not difficult after all, the entry. Solo went as stiff as a board under her, trembling and choking, spluttering in Latin as she slipped down, and down: he felt as if he was splitting her wide, yet her body opened to him freely. Yes, this was a miracle: God had made the body of woman to do astounding things indeed. Rey trembled and felt with her hand between their legs to judge the progress: she was only halfway down, and already felt as if it was too much. “B-Beniamino,” she panted, her eyes squeezed shut. “It is— you are very— thick.”

The only answer was a high, ragged whine: it seemed he had been rendered wholly mute. There were tears clinging to his lashes, his jaw clenched tight, the muscle at his cheeks knotted. Renata gulped, steeled herself, and dropped down another inch, another, some more, and _there_ : she was full, satiated, the whole of him inside her body and her backside resting flat on his thighs. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, trembling: it seemed impossible that all that flesh could fit inside her, and yet there they were. “Beniamino,” she croaked. He felt almost too large: dancing on the edge of pleasure and pain: something was missing. “What— what must we—”

His hands, so large that they nearly spanned her waist, found her hips: he gripped her tight, raised her up a little, and pulled her back down. Renata cried out, forgetting her own admonition to be quiet: now _that_ was bliss, truly, the stretch and drag within her touching places she had not known she possessed. “ _Ah_ ,” he gasped, fingers so tightly clasping her that she thought she might bruise as he moved her up and down again in clumsy, uneven thrusts: she felt as if her whole body was on fire— but it was still not enough. Rei pulled at his wrists until he released her, his eyes wet, and pushed them down by his head: he lay so, his arms pinned, her fingers tangled in the rosary he still clung to. 

“Here,” she panted, and began to lightly cant her hips back and forth, as if she was riding. Solo— no, Beniamino, he could never truly be Cardinal Solo to her again now— uttered a ragged, terrible sound and shut his eyes tight, his face gone taut and hard. He wrenched one of his hands from her grasp and clutched her waist desperately, but she snatched it back with a furor borne of mindless need, slapping him back down to the bed. “Oh, be still, or I shall tie your hands to the b-bedpost with that rosary _,_ ” she gasped, and he opened his eyes, mouth suddenly slack, staring up at her with silent adoration, tears dripping from his eyes and staining the pillow, his cheeks, tracking down to his ears. 

It was enough. Renata rushed toward her own climax and forgot that there were two maids outside the door, forgot that she was a princess, that they were hiding, that it was a sin, that he would never be her husband: she gave voice to her release in a spluttering shriek, hands clinging to Beniamino’s hair, nails digging into his breast. He gave a hoarse cry to answer hers and ripped his hands free, clinging to her waist and hair, crushing her close to his body as his flesh moved within hers in uneven, desperate thrusts; a tangled litany of broken noises mingled with Latin pouring from his unheeding lips. 

She knew when he spilled. Inside, it felt hot: pulsing, like a heartbeat, and his voice, though he could not form words, became coarse, broken, softer as he tugged her to his breast and held her close, shuddering. She felt very tired and safe in the circle of his arms, and closed her eyes, listening to his heartbeat slow beneath the bone and muscle of his chest. 

After what might have been an eternity or only a moment, he moved, slipping soft from her body, and she felt his breath come in a ragged gasp. “Ben,” she said sleepily, and raised her head: he was crying again. “Oh—”

“No,” he said, wiping his wet cheeks. “No, do not trouble yourself on my account.”

Renata frowned: she had never thought to ask if perhaps men felt the climax differently: he had seemed to be in pain the first time, and now he wept. “Did it hurt you so badly?” 

“Hurt me? No.” He reached up and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear, eyes still gleaming with unshed tears. “No, Rei. I feel as if I have died, and seen Heaven, and returned: I weep for joy, and for the pain I know will come; for the shame of my sin, and the delight it brought me.” A shadow crossed his face. “Did it hurt _you_?”

She smiled and rested her cheek upon his breast. “Not a bit. I suppose we must get up now: what hour is it?”

As if to answer her question, the bells in the cathedral struck nine. Beniamino Solo let his fingers trace down her back lightly, avoiding the healing skin. “When you took me in your arms, I prayed for time to stop, as God made the sun hold its place in the sky when Moses lifted his hands,” he murmured, “and yet the minutes go on, slipping through my fingers, and go into the dark.”

“Oh— I expect I ought to ask you for absolution,” she said, raising her head so that her chin pressed into his bare chest. “Should I not? I have just committed fornication, after all.”

Solo looked down at her and nodded. “Mm. I absolve you from the sins of fornication, and of lust, and of— threatening a sacrilegious use of a rosary. _Ego te absolvo_ , my child.” He used the hand still tangled in the beads to bless her with a wry little smile. “ _In nomine patri et filii et spiritus sancti_.”

Renata burst into giggles. “It is a shame we only have one hour left.” Strange: she had thought to feel some great spiritual loss after lying with a man, but there was no loss here, only a pleasant ache between her thighs. Surely fornication was a great sin, but she did not feel guilty in the least.

“An hour,” he echoed, and sighed deeply, the good humor slipping from his face. “You ought to get dressed. I must dress your hair, as I said I would.”

“Do you not wish to do aught else?” she asked, surprised. She would not mind lying beside him, even for a little while: he was warm and pleasant to lie down with, and to kiss.

“There can be nothing else to do, lady. I have…” Solo sat up heavily, drawing his hand across his brow. “I have broken my vows, committed fornication. And yet… yet my heart is not weighed down by my sins, as it ought to be.” He looked as if he was being vexed by a riddle he could not understand. “And yet again I _am_ burdened, for I ought not to have done that thing.”

Renata cast her eyes down, suddenly guilted by what they had done: what she had done to him, what he had done to her. “I should not have done it either, Eminence: we are together sinners, though I have been absolved.” He eyed her with some expression she could not hope to understand and turned away, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting his head in his hands. Renata wanted to trace the scars on his back, old and new marks alike, but stayed her hand: his shoulders were shaking. “Oh— I am sorry, have I made you weep again?”

“It is no matter,” he said, voice thick and heavy. He raised his head to look back at her, and she saw grief and confusion on his face, dark eyes damp. “I do not… I do not know what I am now to do. I am a fallen Cardinal, enmired in sin, who must now be an accessory to war: thank God, lady, that you shall be safe away from it all.”

“They are taking me to—” she began, but was cut off by Solo turning quickly and clapping his palm against her mouth. 

“Hush, child. Tell me not. There shall be no secret to touch my ears in regards to your hiding-place: then I cannot tell my questioners any truth when they ask me on the morrow.”

Renata nodded in understanding and he removed his hand. “You will be tormented,” she whispered.

Solo nodded. “Yes. I expect I will be. Do not fear for me, little Rei. I can bear it.”

“Oh, Beniamino,” she whispered, hating the thought of Grandfather even touching her Cardinal. She reached out, tracing the healing wound on his cheek. “Were I a man— I would take up a sword and strike down any who dared lay a hand on you.”

“I have no doubt,” he said gently, “that your spirit and your will are stronger than any man’s. But your strength lies in your wits, lady. Keep them close to hand and sharpen them like a blade, and the wicked shall surely fall.”

“And you?” Renata asked. “How shall you play your part in this war to come?”

Solo closed his eyes a moment, then turned away and stood. Renata’s hand dropped to the bed, empty: she watched him stand and wash at the basin, then put his clothes back on with meticulous care, from drawers to cassock, and when he was done, he turned back to her, the black wool like armor to his throat. “I shall play many parts, lady. God willing, I will see you again before the end.”

“The end?” she echoed, confused.

His dark eyes were very soft as he looked at her. “War is not kind to suspected traitors, sweet Rei. It will be only a matter of time before di Palatine, in his fear and wrath, has me killed, should the tide not turn in his favor.”

Cold horror gathered in her belly. “No. He— I— I will stop him. I must stay. He cannot—”

“Rei,” said Solo, crossing over to the bed. He cupped her cheek in his hand and tilted her face up, then kissed her lightly on the brow. “He will do what he will. I will play my part as well as I can; I swear to you that, at least.”

A soft knock on the door sent Renata flying out of the bed, grabbing for her clothing with a crimson face. “Eminence? It is past nine, and food has come for us.” Cadella’s voice was soft, but urgent as it floated through the door.

“Yes, we shall be out shortly,” Solo called, helping Renata lace her gamurra back up. “Apologies.”

Clothed decently again, Renata sat down, and Solo braided her hair, pinning it up. His touch was careful and firm, and not a hair was out of place when he finished. Renata looked in the glass on the table, and her heart felt as if it might break: her hair was so finely done that Bibi could not have done a better job. Small braids crossed over twin ropes of long hair, the locks pinned in a crown about her head: it would all be covered by the cap, but that made it no less beautiful. “It is lovely,” she said, putting a hand to her head. 

“You are pleased. That is good.” Solo rested a hand on her shoulder and she thought for a moment he might bend down to kiss her, but he only tightened his grasp a moment, then crossed to the door, opening it as she tied her cap back on and followed him out. “Ladies. I am sorry for the delay.”

“It is no matter,” said Rosa, who looked very pink. “Here, Eminence. You are welcome to the food Pinno has sent us: we have hard cheese and bread for the journey, and wine and olives: and here we have soup.”

“You must eat, not I.” Solo bowed slightly and withdrew to his study, leaving the door ajar: a candle flickered on. He must be writing a letter, Renata thought, as she sipped at the soup.

“What _have_ you been doing with the Cardinal?” hissed Rosa, so quietly that Renata knew Solo would not hear. “We heard you cry out.”

“Nothing,” Renata insisted, red-cheeked.

“Nothing indeed,” said Cadella, one eyebrow raised as she sipped from her spoon. “Either he was harming you, or pleasing you: I am not a fool.”

“Oh— oh, very well,” Renata spluttered, humiliated. “He pleased me, for I would not leave him without— without—” Tears swelled in her eyes. “I wished to love him. Nobody has ever done so: he is so alone, and suffers greatly for his past sins—but he cares for me, and I for him. It was a sin, I know that; I beg you to leave me be on the matter, and to never breathe a word of it to a soul. If Grandfather discovers it, he will be killed.”

“Dearest Rei,” said Rosa kindly, “a single letter of it shall never leave my lips, nor Cadella’s. Now eat: we have a long way to go, and must leave soon.”

* * *

Pinno was a man not very prone to fits of fear or anxiety, but as he searched high and low for Gio in every nook, hall, and cranny he could find, he began to sweat, his heart pounding. Where _was_ he? Had his friend vanished off the face of the Earth? Had he been spirited away by an angel? “Gio!” he whispered as loudly as he dared. It was nearing half-past nine, and he had heard one of his captains say that the guard was to be doubled near the great plaza that spread out before the Palace: he must find Gio quickly, then go back to the ladies secured in Solo’s rooms.

“Pinno?” whispered a voice, and a hand pulled him aside into an alcove: Pinno sagged with relief to finally hear the voice of his friend. It was so dark that he could not see. “What are you doing?” whispered Gio.

“I am— I was looking for you. The Pope: he must be considering some—”

“Pope! Pope! I am done with Popes,” Gio hissed, and Pinno stepped back, blind in the dark. This place is mad. I— I was planning to make my escape: I can be here no longer, friend Pinno.”

“But you are a Vatican guard, as I am.”

Gio sounded as if he might be trembling, yet his voice was resolute. “I shall not guard a man who cares so little for his own grandchild. He is a monster. I watched that poor _principessa_ roll in rat dung and scream in false madness, and I heard him say he would abandon her there. This place is cursed: everyone here is mad, and I will go.”

“But, Gio—” Pinno reached out to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and instead felt soft fabrics: he must have on a tunic. “You cannot go unseen. Someone will—” Gio stepped back, and Pinno’s hand fell blindly down his chest, lighting on—

“Do not speak,” hissed Gio, and Pinno’s mind ceased to remember the Pope or the princess or the court or the Cardinal: he was touching a breast. Pinno had never touched a breast before, but he was sure that the broad, firm swell of flesh was unmistakable both in shape and size, and he suddenly realized he was touching _Gio,_ and then that Gio had breasts, and _then_ that Gio was no man at all. His hand wrenched away.

“You are a lady,” he stammered. 

“No, a woman,” she said (for she was a _she,_ how could he have been so blind?). “My name is Jannah, if you must know.”

“Jannah?” he said, astonished. “But what are you doing here in the guard?”

“I disguised myself,” she told him, “to keep myself safe: being a Moorish woman in a place like this would be far worse than being a Moorish man. Now, I see that the city will fall, so I will leave behind Gio and run as far as I can.”

“Who else knows this secret?” demanded Pinno.

“None! Only— only Cardinal Solo.”

“Solo! Solo will be questioned on the morrow when the lady Renata is gone. Have you any thought as to how you shall escape tonight?”

Her voice changed, doubtful. “I know the guard changes at midnight. I had thought to go by the way of the outer court. I might mingle in the plaza.”

“No, the outer court’s guard is to be doubled,” Pinno said. “I only just heard. You cannot go that way: rather you ought to leave with the maids and the lady through the back ways of the palace. Nobody will notice a woman where they think to look for a man, and nobody will remember it come morning: you will be safer in numbers.”

“You… you will not stop me?” she asked, sounding astonished. 

“No. Perhaps it is my duty to stop you, but…” Pinno sighed. “I cannot bring myself to do it, not when I know you to be right. You once told me I readily washed my hands of small sins. Well, now comes my hour of reckoning: I must stand firm and do right, and wash my hands no longer. Quick, come with me, and I will take you to the Cardinal’s chambers.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Solo came out with a letter, sealed in red wax, and gave it to Cadella: they could not speak of the things to come, lest Solo know, so they spent a good forty minutes wandering about, speaking in hushed tones, reading, and playing chess.  Renata played a game with him, and even though her vision blurred with tears when she thought of how this might be the last game of chess they would ever play, she endeavored to remember all the pieces and their movements, and played as well as she could: she won the game, and he smiled lightly and congratulated her. “Well played, lady. You see: you have an eye for strategy.”

“Speak to me not of strategy,” whispered Renata, turning away and standing for a moment. “Not when your life hangs in the balance.”

“And should I lose my life,” he said, “it shall be worth it: you have gained your freedom. A small price, I think, to pay.”

“Small! Do you truly think so little of yourself?” She rounded on him, shaking her head. “For shame, Beniamino.”

“You are kind, but I will not be flattered,” he said impassively. “I know my life’s value, and I count it very light against yours.”

She sat back down. “But I value it higher. I charge you, then, not only to play your part, but to keep your life safe as you can, so that I might see you again. Shall you shoulder that burden for me?”

Solo looked at her, his eyes gone gentle. “I shall,” he murmured. “As safe as I can: I may come back to you with blood on my hands, lady, but I… I will try to return to you.”

“If you return washed in blood, I will wash you clean of it,” she said, and reached out, timidly crooking her small finger around his large one. “I swear that, at least.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but a quick rap on the door stopped him; he stood, his hand leaving hers, and Renata pulled her fingers into her palm at the loss. Cadella opened the door as Solo reached it, and in stepped Pinno, accompanied by a cloaked and hooded woman in common clothing Renata had never seen before… and yet, she  _ had  _ seen her, she realized as the lady took down her hood: that dark face, those large eyes… the woman gave a smile to Solo, and Renata saw the gap between her front teeth, and she knew at once.

“Gio,” she gasped, shocked. “How is this? Are you dressed as a woman?” She got to her feet at once.

“No, lady; I am a woman— I was dressed as a man,” said the woman, and bowed stiffly, as if unsure of herself. “Forgive me, lady.”

“Her name is Jannah,” said Solo, stepping forward and putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You see; everyone has a secret in this place.”

“You knew?” asked Renata, a small spark of jealousy stinging her. 

“He did, lady. Earlier this very day, he found it out— after I was forced to strip him of his cassock before the Pope,” Jannah said.

“Oh,” said Renata, bewildered. “ _ Oh. _ ” 

“No man would have been so agitated to do such a thing,” Solo explained, dropping his hand from the girl’s shoulder. “Her heart was tender and modest: the truth was writ plain across her face.”

“But you have managed to keep such a secret from the whole of the guard!” exclaimed Rosa. “How have you done it?”

“It was simple,” Jannah said. “Men do not see what they do not think of: I always kept my business private.”

Cadella started up. “Then you must come with us when we go,” she said. 

“No— one must stay behind,” Rosa said firmly. “Three maids were seen coming up to the Cardinal’s rooms: three must leave. Cadella: you might go with Rei and Jannah— I can stay behind with his Eminence, to fashion a— an excuse: they will want to know what he was doing that he heard nothing of your departure on the morrow, and I can fashion that excuse.”

“What excuse?” Renata asked.

“You know very well what excuse,” Rosa said, cheek turning very pink. “They shall burst in here and find his Eminence has been alone with a scullery-maid all night: the excuse will follow naturally.”

“That might serve well,” said Solo. “We may agree on the details later: the three maids came to bring food—”

“But if we were seen coming up at nine and not seen departing until ten, someone will ask why we tarried,” said Cadella.

“You… might say they entertained you, Eminence,” offered Pinno, looking at the floor in reluctant shame. 

“Entertained?” echoed Solo, lost.

“Yes, you know: in the fashions of the old Romans— that is, in— in ways—”

“Pinno,” Rosa said, mortified for the Cardinal, who wore a puzzled expression, “you will shame the man—”

“Well, all that is to say, one might lie with more than one lady at once,” said Pinno, nearly purple with embarrassment..

Solo looked utterly bewildered. “More than one?” he repeated. “But, friend Pinno, a man only has one— one— how would I lie with  _ three  _ at once?”

Cadella’s hands flew to her face, which had suddenly gone very pale, with two red blotches high on her cheeks. “You, you— might use your hands upon one, and your mouth upon the other, and your— man’s part upon the third, Eminence: oh, God help me.”

The Cardinal turned as crimson as blood and crossed himself. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, preserve me,” he muttered. “Well, the more I make the Pope believe I am a lecherous glutton for lust, the better. Very well. All three maids came to my chambers, all three departed. And Pinno, who was seen coming to my rooms with another maid… brought a fourth, who stayed all night: that will be Rosa.”

“O! I am now accessory to sin, truly,” said Pinno, looking aghast.

“Be quiet,” Jannah scolded, hiding a smile. “You cared not when it was Pavo di Damerone.”

“But I do not want Rosa to stay behind,” said Renata plaintively, and all heads turned to look at her. 

“My dear Rei,” said Rosa, crossing over and taking her hands, “I shall stay behind to guard your Cardinal for you, and Pinno, too. You must go.”

Renata’s lower lip trembled. “I must, then,” she allowed. “And you must take care to not be discovered, for I would see you again.”

“I will, I swear it.” Rosa embraced her tightly, and Renata tried to keep from weeping: to lose her dear friend and her beloved Cardinal all in one day seemed too high a price to pay to escape Grandfather, but at the same time she knew there was no other way. “Now, go with Cadella and Jannah, and you will be in as safe a set of hands as anyone can offer.”

“I will, I will: oh, Rosa! Should I never see you again, we shall meet in Heaven,” said Rei, choking up, and kissed her friend before turning away to Cardinal Solo. “Eminence,” she said, and dropped into a deep curtsey, but her knees failed her and she knelt upon the floor, weeping.

“Oh, my child,” he said, voice brimming with compassion, and raised her up by the elbows gently. “No, do not weep for me. I will have Rosa and Pinno, and against such strength none shall prosper.”

She managed a laugh through her tears. “You have been every bulwark to my soul in these times, Eminence. I thank you for it.”

“I am your servant,  _ principessa,  _ in this life and the next.” He bowed and kissed her hand, and Renata felt her soul stir to life at that touch… then he had let it go, and was walking away to the table. “Go at once, ladies. It is past ten. Jannah, have you arms?”

“Only a knife,” she answered, showing him the dagger in her sleeve.

“That is good. Lady, you take this,” and Solo pressed his own knife into Renata’s hands. It was heavy, in a leather scabbard, with a handle wrought of walnut and steel, and when she held it she knew at once that it was a weapon, not a toy. “Should any man recognize you, drive the point between his ribs.”

“Yes, Eminence,” she stammered: to be charged to murder was a new thing, and she was not sure she liked it, but his eyes were very hard and dark. 

Cadella turned back: she had wrapped all the food in cloth, and held the bundle under her arm. “We must go now,” she said. “Pray for us, that we make our journey safe.”

“May the mercy of Christ be upon you,” he said, and blessed them all. “Go, ladies.”

“Cardinal,” whispered Renata, still clutching the knife as Cadella threw her cloak about her shoulders and Rosa gave hers to Jannah.

“Go,” he repeated, dark and firm, and turned away, looking at the wall as the three women left.

* * *

The journey to the kitchens was easier than Renata had thought it would be, and after so long a time behind doors, she fought the urge to run. Cadella stayed her, a hand through her arm, and pretended to whisper and giggle with Jannah as they hurried down the stairs. 

They had just reached the stair down to the kitchens when a guard stopped them. “Halt,” he said sternly. “What is your business this time of night?”

“Oh,” said Cadella, smiling and blushing prettily. “Oh, I cannot say—”

“Say your business,” said the guard, immovable as stone. 

“Sir,” said Jannah, in such a soft and girlish voice that Cadella looked at her in surprise. “We were summoned to a Cardinal’s room for… contemplation of the spirit. We are now returning to find something to eat, and then must go to sleep: such contemplation is hard work.”

Renata could not help herself: she burst into a hysterical giggle of terror, and Cadella seized her arm, but the guard looked surprised and a little disdainful. “Oh, a cardinal,” he said, stepping aside. “I see. You had best go eat, then, and wash.”

“Thank you,” Cadella said, and they stepped through, hurrying down the hall. “My God! Rei, I almost laughed!” she gasped, as they reached the hall.

“But you did not,” said Rei, heart a-flutter, “so he will think us a pack of forgettable little fools. Jannah, you performed admirably.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling in the torchlight. “I have discovered often that a smile and a few soft words can be as effective as a knife in the ribs… and there is no need to wash the floors clean of blood after.”

* * *

The kitchens were silent at this late hour save for a few maids who were busily cleaning the long tables and shoring up the fires. All anyone ever had past ten was mulled wine, and a large pot of it was simmering over the fire, filling the room with the smells of cloves: all three of them took a small cup to steady their nerves.

Renata sat down and nibbled at a cold, forgotten piece of chicken on a platter. It was warm down here, and Cadella and Jannah would be with her: she was nearly safe, or as close as she could be. Time passed by slowly as the maids left one by one. Only an hour more, and the guard would change: she would be free— but at the moment, she realized she ought not to have drunk so much water and wine. “Cadella,” she said, “is there a privy chamber down here?”

“Yes,” said Cadella, eyeing the last two maids, who were taking no notice of them and departing for the night. “Out that arch, there: then go into the hall. Turn left. The one in the scullery will do.”

“Thank you,” said Renata, and made haste to the hall. It was dark, but she found her way all right. She did her business in a dank little room that smelled sharp and foul, then left, feeling her way back down the dark corridor. It was longer than she remembered. Had she taken a wrong turn? She frowned. Perhaps she ought to turn back and find the scullery again.  _ I should not have gone without Cadella. She knew the way... _

A hand grasped her right arm just above the elbow. The knife at her side was rendered useless in a matter of seconds. She opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clapped itself over her open lips, and Renata was dragged backward into the dark without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- CLIFFHANGER!!! IM SORRY!!!  
> \- I've recently been informed we have to move (yay) so fair warning that I may not update on schedule as usual next week depending on that. No clue what the dates'll be.   
> \- as always don't forget to tag mentions on twitter with #swwfic !


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for [throws sad glitter] anti-Semitic lines of thought from an antagonist toward the end, sex shaming, and sexism

“Silence,” Solo breathed into her ear as she was pulled back against the cold, dank stone of the hall. “ _ Silence _ , my child.” If she cried out, they would be found: then all would be lost for them both, and he would have made this perilous journey down here for naught.

Renata made a sound as if startled, but relaxed against him. He released her mouth, and she reached out, clinging to his sleeve, feeling the wool of his cassock. “Beniamino,” she gasped. “But how did you come here?”

Her touch was like fire, like coals: her fingers threatened to burn through his cassock. He made himself speak. “I had Pinno show me the secret ways down here, and came with haste: Rosa is still safe in my chambers. Come, there is a place we may speak unseen.”

She followed him eagerly down to a corner, her footsteps pattering along behind him as he clung to her hand. He counted his steps and pressed his shoulder to the wall: with a grunt, the hidden door opened. Light streamed through from inside: a torch was lit in there, and he stepped through into the space. He turned, hooded, and motioned her inside. Renata followed, a look of great wonder and excitement on her pretty features, and he used his shoulder to push the great false wall shut.

Once it had closed, he turned, raised a hand, and pulled the hood of the cloak he had thrown over his clothing from his head with such speed that he nearly tore it. His eyes were blazing, two bright coals in his pale face, illuminated in firelight. “Rei,” he gasped, and fell upon her, his hands cupping the back of her head with fervent tenderness as he kissed her again and again. 

“You— you said you must speak with me—” she whispered between kisses, hands tangling in his rough cassock. “What—”

“That was a falsehood: I wished to get you alone to say my farewell to you in a manner more satisfactory than the manner in which I bid you so in my rooms.” He pulled back and offered a little smile, and she laughed, her face breaking into a delighted expression.

“Truly? That is good: I did not wish to leave you so.”

“You are very kind, my child,” Solo sighed, bending down for another kiss. He felt as though he would die if he ever stopped: her little mouth tasted of wine.  _ Communion wine, _ he thought dizzily, tongue lapping at her lips. His flesh was rising, thick and hot, below his cassock, and he did not care that it was a sin: what was one more added to the penance he must do after she had departed? He wished he could have her on a bed again, but there was no use: it was past eleven, and she must go soon. “My sweet Rei, show me… uncover your thigh for me.”

She moaned into his mouth and willingly did as he asked, and his hand gripped bare, warm skin: a miracle, another miracle that she allowed him such use of her. “Beniamino,” she panted, nose pressed to his cheek as he pushed her gently against the wall, “please,  _ please _ .”

He dipped his fingers down, under the linen chemise, and felt her: she was hot between the thighs and slippery-smooth as her mouth had been. “God Almighty,” he whispered, pressing a tentative finger into her body and listening to her sigh. “You desire it: truly, this is… near wantonness, Rei,” he chastised, in pretense of sternness. “You ought not to be such a slave to the flesh.”

“I desire _you_ ,” she groaned, and he raised his head to look at her in shock: _him_. She had said it before, but he had never let himself truly believe it, not even after they had gone to bed together, after he had spilled within her. _Me. She desires me._ _Me, with my hands stained in innocent blood; me, with all my sins._ He could not quite breathe. “Beniamino…” she whispered, searching his face for some sign.

“Say it again,” he whispered, hand frozen between her thighs. “I beg you, Rei; say it again.”

“I desire you, I desire you, I  _ love _ you,” Renata whimpered, squirming around his hand, clinging to his cassock, and Solo could not speak, could not move for the fullness of his heart and the tears in his eyes, turning her face to a blur of gold in the dark. “I love you, I—”

“Rei,” he wept, and kissed her again, one hand between her legs and the other cradling her cheek. “ _ Cor meum, mi vitae, mihi gaudium _ …” Solo pressed a second finger into her, feeling the slick softness of her body, how the velvet of her seemed endless, pliant, giving: his flesh throbbed so badly he could not bear it. “I must take you,” he gasped, kissing her throat. “Even against the wall, or on the floor like a beast: I must.”

“I am yours; have me,” she whispered, and plucked at his cassock, trying to get at him, to press herself ever closer. “Always, my Beniamino— haste, make haste, else someone find us—”

He kissed her again, stopping her words, and swept his cassock aside, exposing his drawers; one quick movement and he was naked from thigh to waist, his aching flesh pressed to her warm thigh as he bent to lift her, press her against the wall. “Here,” he panted, half mindless with need, “here, you need only hold to me with your legs—”

She clung to him, letting him lift her, both lean thighs pressed to his hips, and he found the place with his fingers, clumsily guiding himself to her entrance, the soft curls there, like his own.  _ Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, for she was taken out of Man…  _ Solo groaned softly as he entered her, and it was just as ecstatic as the first time: she was close and lush about him and welcomed him to the hilt.  _ I have come into my garden; I have gathered my myrrh with my spice.  _ “Ben,” she whispered, clinging to him. “Do not… let me fall.”

“Never,” he said, and braced her up against the wall. He thought, as from a far distance, that he must look ridiculous with his cassock pulled open and his drawers slipping to his ankles; Rei’s stockinged legs wrapped close to his waist— but he did not care: he was moving inside her again, and it was as sweet a sin as he had ever known. She was singing for him, a river of soft cries, muffled against his collar as he took and took, and his hand found her body where they were joined. Renata gasped, went stiff and gasping for a long moment in short, shallow breaths— then her body seized his in some great fit that he knew to be her completion, and she went limp and pliant against him, still clinging to his shoulders. 

Solo could not stop it: he wished that he might go on forever, but an end must come. His movement faltered and he cried aloud, holding Rei up with all his strength as he spilled into the soft heat of her, as pleasure burst like fire through his body, as she murmured softly into his ear, stroking his hair with trembling fingers.  _ Heaven, this is Heaven, and I shall never see its like again. _ He could not hold her up: his knees were gone to water, so he slid to the cold stone floor, panting into her hair, and so they sat in a tangle of limbs, resting on each other in silence.

Presently, she spoke, and sounded as if she was about to weep. “I would stay by your side, even on pain of death. We… we might take the secret ways back to your chambers, and let Rosa go free. I would stay with you. We can go, even now. Please.”

Cold horror filled him: this was not what he had wanted. “God, no, Heaven forbid,” he answered bleakly, nose pressed into her soft hair. His flesh had gone weak within her, and slipped out easily as he shifted his body: he felt a pang of loss. “You said you loved me.” He did not mean for it to sound so cold.

“I did. I do.” Rei lifted her head from his shoulder. “And you… do you…” She sounded suddenly unsure. “You once said there were diverse kinds of love: love between friends, love towards fellow men, and love… like that which we—”

“Do not ask me,” he said hoarsely, “of such things. I will not allow that conversation to take place: you must go back to the maids.” Perish the thought that she might remain here after all the work that had been done, and for what?  _ Love? _ Something so fleeting and changeable? God forbid. He roughly backed away from her, panting lightly: it was cold down here, but Solo felt as though he was sweating.

Her pointed little face was hurt. “But surely, if you loved me, you would say so, and then we could find a way to remain—” 

Solo shook his head fiercely. “No. You  _ must _ go, and go now. I should not have asked you such a thing, nor broached the subject at all, nor allowed you to speak of love. Love is not like it is in romantic songs and tales, Rei: love cannot save you from the wrath of your grandfather. Only distance and speed can do that. Up with you now.”

Renata got to her feet, wobbling, and he saw a trickle of his seed down her inner thigh before she dropped her skirt down: the sight was enough to make him rouse again, but Solo shut his eyes and dug his nails into his hands to stay his lust as he stood. “You will not say you love me, so I must then believe you have used me like a common woman,” she said icily. 

“Then yes, I have,” Solo ground out between his teeth. If wounding her tender heart would make her understand that there would be no other way, so be it: he knew if he said what she wished him to, she would not leave his side, and her will was stronger than his: they would both be lost if they stayed in this place a moment more. “I have used you, for I am a man, and that is all I am capable of doing, lady Renata: you desired to love me, so I let you— you longed for a companion and a guide, so I was one to you— at the command of your grandfather, unless you have forgot.” Her face went as white as salt in the torchlight as he spoke, and it sickened him, but he could not stop the words from spilling out: cruel lies, all lies, all for her own safety. “I cannot love. I do not love you. I have only ever been your servant, who did as you commanded. I sought you out only to take my pleasure, for I am a sinner who has fallen from God’s grace, and I have lied to you: yes, your accusations were true. I am a monster, and I cannot love.”

“I do not believe you,” Renata said, stricken. “I cannot.”

“Believe what you will.” He pulled his cassock back together and blessed her. “I absolve you from the sin of fornication:  _ ego te absolvo.  _ I will open the door: you will go left, then take the first right, and that hall ends in the kitchens.”

She did not speak until he had the wall open again, the torch guttering, making her face a hundred shadows, a hundred lights. “Kiss me before I go,” she said, her voice quavering.

Solo allowed himself to pretend he would say yes, and that her sweet mouth would find his in softness and gentleness, and that he would say he had not meant it; any of it, and that they would depart together, into the golden sunlight, hand in hand. “I will do no such thing. Depart from me.” He made his voice as even and cold as he could.

Renata stood there, her round, stunned eyes wet with confusion and shame, and stepped through the door. “You were— ever gentle with me,” she managed, tears streaking her face as she looked back suddenly. “I thank you for that mercy, at least, Eminence.”

Tears welled in his own eyes, but he shook them away. “Go!” he barked. “Before I drag you before his Holiness and have you whipped for whoring!” 

She fled. Her feet struck the stone, running steps echoing along the wall, and he could hear her sobs floating back to him in the dark. Solo waited until he could hear her no longer, and then he sank to the ground, weeping aloud where none but God could hear.

* * *

The stroke of midnight found Renata, Jannah, and Cadella walking through the great marble pavement of the outer yard: none had stopped them, and a quick glance at the walls confirmed that the guards were changing. No bright spear-points or helms gleamed in the sliver of the waning moon, and their breath came like smoke in the black air: they carried no lights, and both Rei and Jannah stumbled blindly, unfamiliar with the cobblestones. Cadella took both their arms and rushed them through, urging them to step quietly, as if they were going about business, and above all not to run. It was the hardest thing Rei had ever had to do: to walk slowly and purposefully under those walls of the Apostolic Palace, every window like an eye looking down upon her, but she did, and soon they had got to the gate without being stopped.

“It is locked,” whispered Cadella, face as pale as the moon in the dark. “It was supposed to be open— it is  _ locked _ —”

“Let me see it,” said Renata, and took a pin from her hair, wriggling it into the key-hole of the great gate: Jannah put her back to them and watched the yard. Far above on the wall, voices were heard. 

“The guard,” hissed Jannah. “Make haste!”

“There,” said Renata, and the great lock sprang free: she worked it with chilled fingers, and Jannah turned to help her: the gate opened, and they got through, then Rey locked it again behind them. A walk away, a turn, a few steps more— they were free of the Palace, and began to hurry down the cobbled streets, slipping into the shadows.

“Thank God,” whispered Cadella, seizing the other two girls’ hands as they hurried up the street, out of the shadow of the Apostolic Palace. “I had thought us truly trapped.”

“Thank Heaven for my hairpin,” said Renata, clinging to Jannah. She did not think about Rosa or Pinno: there would be time enough to weep later; she refused to consider Cardinal Solo. “How much farther?” The streets were not empty at this late hour, but rather full, and as the women walked they could see that even this close to the Pope’s residence there were brothels, half-dressed women in the windows calling out to men who walked the streets below, winesinks, and gambling dens. Jannah muttered something in her own tongue and looked straight ahead.

“A half-hour’s walk, then we shall get our carriage and be off,” said Cadella. “Keep your hood up, and if anyone speaks to you, pretend you are mute or stupid: they will be none the wiser.”

* * *

Renata’s feet were aching by the time they reached the Palazzo Organa, and she was chilled to the bone despite the warm clothing. Some lights inside the house were lit, and Cadella took them round into the back alley, tapping at the iron gate.

A man appeared, bearded, sandy-brown hair gleaming in the light of the torch he held. “ _ Énoncez votre objectif,” _ he said roughly.

Cadella sighed. “Monsieur Beaumont, you know me well, do you not?”

“ _ Oui, _ Mademoiselle Cadella, but I do not know these others. Give the signal.”

“Oh, you are impossible: very well, the password is  _ soutane—  _ now let us in before we freeze!”

“Yes, it is so: come in, then,” he said, and swung the gate wide, nodding the women all in and shutting it fast behind them. “The lady d’Organa is waiting for you in the salon.”

“Yes, she would be,” said Cadella. “Come, then, and we shall go to her.”

Renata felt as if she was dreaming. The house itself, once they had made it out of the back rooms and kitchens and halls, was as airy and light as the finest palace, with none of the gilded grandeur that adorned the Papal apartments. Art decorated the walls, statues stood in alcoves, and as they rounded the corner and came into the salon, Renata became aware that there were many people all standing inside, and that they were looking at her. The weight of unknown expectations pressed down upon her mind, and she could not look at any of the strangers… until a familiar voice said, “My lady Renata.”

She looked up: it was Lady Falena, who she remembered from court, and her familiar great coils of red hair, smiling as she extended her hand. “My lady,” Renata said, astonished as she accepted it. “How came you here? I had not heard—”

“I made my departure soon after news of your cruel treatment at the hands of his Holiness met our ears,” said Lady Falena. “Rest assured, dear child, that you are in safe hands now, and no one here shall treat you so ill.” She kissed her on both cheeks.

“No?” choked Renata, sudden emotion welling in her throat. “That is very good. I thank you for it.”

“Let me see her,” said an older, soft voice, and Rei looked up to see an older woman, small of stature, with great dark eyes and a mouth that seemed ready to smile. Something familiar lay in the set of her chin, her nose— she knew the lady at once. “You must be Renata di Palatine: welcome. I am sorry it is such a late hour: you must depart from us at once and be on the road to Florence by tomorrow.”

“You are the Lady d’Organa,” said Renata faintly, and out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the gentlemen lay a hand on the hilt of his dagger. “You are the mother of—” She could not bring herself to speak the name, and instead fell to her knees, fighting not to weep before all these people. “My lady,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “I wholly commit myself to your care. Instruct me as to what I ought to do, and I will do it, by the blood of Christ.” 

The gentleman with the dagger put his hand back at his side. “Well, she speaks prettily and piously enough,” he said.

“Up, child,” said d’Organa, and Renata stood, head bowed.

“A letter I was bidden to give you,” said Cadella quickly, and put it into Lady d’Organa’s hands before indicating Jannah. “This, too, is a friend: Jannah is a Moorish woman who went about as a man and became a Vatican guard, standing by the Pope often as he was in counsel.”

“The Pope himself!” exclaimed Lady d’Organa, looking up from her letter. “That is good: you will be able to tell us much of his thoughts and purposes.”

“Yes, lady,” said Jannah, looking about, at a loss as to how she should genuflect. She settled for going to one knee as a man might, and pressing her fist to her breast. “ _ Bismillah—  _ I will tell you as much as I can. The man does not believe a fleet is coming up the Tiber, he trusts not his cardinals nor his bishops, and he went so far as to strip Cardinal Solo naked before the small court he keeps in order to question him, that he might be sure the man had no weapon concealed on him.”

“He is full of fear, then,” said Lady Falena as Jannah rose up. “His fear will blind him. That is good. Jannah, you ought to remain here with us. Lady d’Organa will hold her own in this house: the  _ principessa _ Renata will be sent to Florence, to a villa there owned by our friend Duchessa Amalia Stretta. The Duchessa is in Naples, preparing a fleet to take the Tiber— Signore Schiocco, you have written to di Damerone?”

“I have,” said the burly man who had touched his knife, stepping forward. “I expect an answer soon: the Doge was keen to ride on Rome.”

“Have you any clue as to what nobles or Cardinals the Pope might call on for aid?” demanded Lady d’Organa, turning to Renata. “You were at his side often.”

Renata found her thoughts, fluttering about like birds set free,and gathered them all back in. “Yes, lady. I do not believe by now that any Cardinals will willingly aid him after his sins were so exposed before the whole of the court, but there are the Papal armies of Orsini and Colonna to contend with, at the least: Orgoglio will likely turn his tail and run for his estate in Pisa, if he can, rather than fight for a man he knows to be lost, but he may be forced to stay. The rest are of no consequence: all they have is money, not men or armies or steel, so it will take some time to gather such an army if they so desire. The Pope will need to name a new captain-general of the papal armies if it comes to war, since the last one was a figurehead, and died after an excess of lampreys at dinner last year, and I do not believe he was ever replaced. Oh, and lest I forget: Colonna’s armies number at most a thousand foot soldiers and a hundred cavalry, and Orsini’s number the same, but not as much cavalry. That does not include the Vatican guard, who number a thousand and five hundred: is that correct, Jannah?”

“Is it so,” said Jannah, standing and looking a little surprised.

Renata nodded and turned back. “So then our one thorn, Lady, would be if the Duca di Fumoso sailed with his fleet to the mouth of the Tiber: he has an army and many ships.”

The room was very quiet. “Well,” said Lady Falena, smiling, “this is an excellent stroke of fortune. Do you think it likely that the Duca will join the cause?”

“I cannot say,” answered Renata. “He was furious at the Pope when I—” and she went scarlet, ashamed. 

“You need not speak of that,” said d’Organa kindly, patting her hand. “We had heard rumor of it: go on.”

“Well, then I can only say I do not know, but I do not think it certain he will. He wanted nothing to do with the Pope, and said ‘Gladly’ when he was bidden to depart.”

“And depart he has,” said Lady Falena, “for we have word he is still on the road to Genoa. Very well: we can be sure of a small papal army, and we outnumber them. This war will be bloodless, I pray.”

“And quickly over,” said Signore Schiocco, crossing himself. “I will accompany our  _ principessa _ to Florence myself, and from thence go to Venice with all haste.”

“Excellent,” said Lady d’Organa. “Renata, we have packed you clothing that will serve you for the travels: the coach awaits, and you will have Cadella as maid: Jannah shall remain and advise us.”

“Advise you!” Jannah looked shocked. “Me?”

“Of course: you have knowledge of the Vatican guard. One must be practical in war, and not leave anything to chance for the sake of old hatreds and foolish preconceptions.” Lady Falena eyed her critically. “We must have you dressed properly: when we are done, nobody will know you to have been a guard for a moment.”

* * *

The sun rose slowly over the hills of Rome. Cardinal Solo sat by his window and prayed without ceasing, as he had all night since returning: Pinno stood guard still, faithful as a saint, and Rosa slept soundly in his bed, the clothes rumpled and stained with evidence of his fornication.

_ Not Rosa’s, _ he thought momentarily, and fought to push the thought of Renata from his mind.  _ Christ deliver me from sin, Mother Mary deliver me.  _ Rosa was fearless, her youth either making her very brave or very foolhardy, and Solo did not know which it was yet. He supposed he would find out soon enough. Until then, he would put his trust in God, whether He was listening or no, and come what may, he would live, as he had sworn.

There was a great shouting, a hue and cry outside the thick door. Solo crossed himself, muttered one last  _ Ave, _ and took off his cassock, laying himself out on his side in his bed by Rosa and sighing deeply.

When the Vatican Guard broke the door down, Pinno shouting in outrage behind them, they found Cardinal Solo and a pretty young maid both in a state of undress in bed, and Rosa cried aloud as they dragged them both from Solo’s chambers down to the Pope himself.

* * *

“Where is my granddaughter?” screamed the old man, purple in the face, spittle flying. He was so furious that he had forgotten to use the holy  _ we,  _ and Solo made himself as calm and even as he could, for Rosa’s sake, if not his: she had clearly not expected to be dragged before the Holy Father and a handful of whispering Cardinals, and had gone pale as milk.

“I do not know, your Holiness,” he answered, as contritely as he could.

“And this whore?” shouted Sisinnius, pointing at Rosa, who tried to cover herself with her shift as best she could. “Who is she?”

“I had her sent for, Holiness,” said Solo, trying to keep his voice even. 

“The guard outside your door says you sent for more than only her,” sneered the Pope. 

“It is true,” whispered Rosa, trembling, “Holy Father, that when I arrived, three other maids were in the Cardinal’s chambers.”

“Three!” said the Pope, eyes glinting. “And tell us, Solo, what did you with these three maids? No longer maids, we wager?”

“That is the maids’ concern,” said Solo rigidly. “I find no law against use of hand and mouth to pass time with a maid, though it might be considered fornication.”

The Pope laughed: a cruel, cold sound. “So,” he said, peering down, “so you have not entirely lost your pride and broken your vows, have you? Hand and mouth indeed! The good Cardinal abases himself, claiming to do penance for his sins of abandoning our holy granddaughter— then sends for whores and maids to ease his suffering! We are disgusted with you, Solo, and we recall we commanded you to lay fifty strokes upon your flesh to atone, did we not?”

“You did,” said Solo. There was no point in arguing. “I have not done them yet.”

“Disobedient! Fornicator! Take him to the dungeons,” ordered the Pope, and the guards stepped forward as they were bidden. “Take him to our chief inquisitors. Ensure he holds nothing back: I want him broken before the month is out. As for the maid, have her questioned.”

* * *

The church that had been shepherded by Cardinal Solo had been left in the hands of Brother dal Prato these past months, and the priest was sick to death of it: there was no rest, he had no help, and he was beginning to fall into the sins of resentment and wrath. As the Cardinal fell from favor, fewer people attended, and soon none at all came to Mass: that meant no tithes, which meant Brother dal Prato was reduced to living off his own meager purse.  _ Scrabbling in the shadow like a rat, _ he seethed, bent over his broom as he cleared the steps of the church of street-dirt and dried leaves. If only he had been chosen, all those years ago, as the protege of the Duca di Fumoso!  _ I would have had wealth beyond measure, _ he thought, kicking at a stain on the marble.  _ Wealth and comfort, and I would wear a Cardinal’s cassock and a ring, and sit at the Pope’s right hand… _

His thoughts were interrupted by a clatter of hooves. Dal Prato looked up and saw a fine pair of horses, upon one of which sat a man clothed in fine things, a man high of stature and broad of shoulder… and yet as the man dismounted and came towards dal Prato, he realized it was no man at all, but a woman— and such a woman! A woman with a plain face, a shock of ill-cut pale hair, and a terrible old scar marring the left side of her face, near the light blue eye. He repressed a shudder: women in men’s garments? What was the world coming to?  _ Surely sin runs rampant through this city: does not the Bible say that women who wear men’s clothing shall be put to death? _ He did not open his mouth to say so, however: the woman was taller than he by a hand’s span, and looked stronger than Samson. “You are Eremo dal Prato?” she asked, in a voice low and cold. 

“I am,” he said, eyeing her cloth-of-silver cloak and fine leather riding boots.

“You are in charge of the church of Cardinal Beniamino Solo?”

Dal Prato misliked this line of questioning. “Temporarily, while he serves the Pope.”

Her face did not change. “I am sad to tell you, then, that the Cardinal has been detained and accused of treason in the Holy See. Doubtless this comes as a shock to you.”

“Treason?” said dal Prato, raising an eyebrow. “No,  _ signorina, _ it does not surprise me: he was ever making some great show of his penitence, and always in some great moral struggle. What could he be so guilty of, if not treason to the Holy Father, the worst of crimes against God?”

“I see that you are a godly man indeed, with good judgment,” she said, looking down at him with her cool blue eyes. “I was charged by a wealthy Duke to find him a godly man, one apt to obey. Perhaps you might serve this Duke well.”

“A Duke?” echoed dal Prato, excitement stirring in his breast. To be in the service of a wealthy man would make him comfortable for years: he did not care what the man might desire of him, and if the duke’s messenger was a woman in men’s clothing, it could be anything. “I would gladly serve your Duke, lady. Who is he?”

“The Duca di Fumoso,” said the woman imperiously, and dal Prato nearly collapsed with joy. Solo’s old benefactor: was it true? He had always thought Solo too weak to be a good tool for Christendom: he remembered how the inquisition of Genoa had affected the man upon his return to Rome. Nightmares and a sallow, drawn face— and over what? Those Christ-killing rats and their hideous spawn? “He is on the road back to Genoa even as we speak, but charged me to find him a servant and bring him thither.”

“I would be pleased to do as the Duke bids me, but how is it I have not heard of such a person among his retinue?” asked dal Prato, astonished. “Who are you, lady?”

“I am la Fantasma,” she answered, “the Ghost: I walk where I wish unseen and report all manner of things to the Duke. Come with me, dal Prato: we have a long journey to make.”

_ God be praised,  _ thought dal Prato feverishly as he shut the church doors, forgetting it all, and following her to the horses.  _ He has heard my prayers to be lifted from this misery, and shall give me a place overflowing with milk and honey.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Latin translation of what Solo says to Renata is "My heart, my life, my joy."  
> \- Mr. Beaumont asks them to "state their purpose" in French and the password translates to "cassock" hmmm


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: descriptions of torture and torture's aftermath as told through an observer's eyes, a brief mention of rape, although no actual rape takes place, and suicidal ideation.

It took four days to reach Florence, and for fear they might be discovered, Cadella made Rei wear the plainest travelling-clothes they could find, and wore one of the Lady d’Organa’s travelling-gowns and cloaks. Rei tried hard not to envy the other girl as she sat primly upright in a fur-lined, buttoned cloak, with kid gloves and a warm pair of shoes. Her own woolen cloak was threadbare, her shoes worn. She had refused to let anyone touch her hair, and had covered it with a linen cap, then a hood, and that was how Rei sat in the coach, looking out the window at the wintry landscape. It would be colder after Christmas, and rarely snowed in late November, but she still felt as cold as ice, even inside the coach, pulled by a great strong black horse called Cesare, who was as strong as an ox. Her knife was cold against her thigh, where she kept it concealed; the knife given her by...

_ He said he loved me not. _

No, she would not think of that: it was useless. Renata turned her face to the window, praying the  _ Ave _ silently.  _ Mother Mary, take the thoughts of him away from me.  _ His face had been so cruel, so hard: she did not know what to think. Had he truly only used her body for himself?  _ I am a monster, and cannot love: _ the words rang through her mind like a funeral bell. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked out the window. She had begged him to let her love him, and he had relented: she truly had been a fool to give herself so utterly to a servant of her grandfather’s, no matter how kind his mother was. How could she have been so blind? He had broken the seal of confession, caused her disastrous engagement to the Duca di Fumoso: had that truly been his plan all along? Doubt filled her. She turned her thoughts instead to Rome. 

They had left an hour past midnight, in the dark: Lady d’Organa had put a letter into Cadella’s hands to be given to the steward at the villa in Florence, and urged them to go swift and get as far from Rome as was possible by morning. By sunrise, the city was fading behind them; by noon, it was gone, and they rattled away down the road past monasteries and abbeys, past nunneries and chapels and small villages: through larger cities, over rivers, past vineyards. Nobody had overtaken them on the road yet, and Renata prayed that they might reach Florence safely. She felt that once they were behind walls with good strong gates, nobody might reach her at all, and she and Cadella would be safe at last. She hoped they were not treating poor Rosa too badly.  _ Oh, my Rosa... _

“You are crying,” said the girl softly, and Renata lifted her head to look at Cadella, who offered her a linen square to dry her eyes. “Do not do so, lady: we will be safe soon.”

“Soon, soon,” muttered Renata, crumpling the cloth into her hand. “Oh, Cadella: all I can think is that poor Rosa will be beaten.”

“Yes, and the Cardinal—”

“I do not wish to speak of him,” said Renata quickly. “I beg you to not do so.”

Cadella frowned, her brows drawing down in concern. “No? I thought you were friends, and you parted well enough.”

“Well enough! Ha!” said Renata bitterly. “He came to me in secret, Cadella, down in the secret ways when I had left to seek out a privy chamber, and— and told me he did not love me, and that all our great affections towards each other were for naught. I had thought him at least a friend and companion, but he confessed that it was all a lie.”

“A lie!” exclaimed Cadella. “Why would he confess such a thing to you?”

“I do not know,” said Renata miserably. “I only know that I loved him dearly, and feel now as if one of my legs has been cut off, that I have no firm foundation or trust in anyone. Oh, my dear Rosa: when did she come to your lady d’Organa?”

“Oh! Rosa came to the Palazzo Organa weeks ago, saying she had been rudely replaced in the Palace at the bidding of the Pope, and wished to seek gainful employment— as Lady d’Organa’s maid, I think. Well, there was no place for her as a maid, but my lady thought it might be good to have her close to hand, as she knew you well— and you can surmise the rest.”

“I pray she is not harmed,” murmured Renata, crossing herself. “Oh, God in Heaven, may she not be harmed.”

* * *

The villa in Florence was a beautiful great house on a hill, all the land surrounded by a high stone wall with an iron gate. Renata leaned out as the guard shut it behind them and looked up the hill: a little vineyard stretched off to the east, and an orchard, though all the branches were bare. A goat bleated somewhere far away, and she smiled for the first time since leaving Rome: this was truly beauty. The house itself was white stone with a dark roof, and once the coach halted in the courtyard, Cadella and Renata lit out of it, stretching their legs and glad of the long journey’s end. 

A man in fine clothing came rushing out, looking very taken off his guard. “Here, now,” he said, “what’s this, lady?”

It took Renata a moment to realize he was speaking to Cadella, and not to her, and why should he speak to her? To him, she appeared a ragged little servant, and Cadella looked a very fine young noble lady. “Here,  _ signore, _ ” said Cadella without missing a beat, thrusting the letter at him, “this shall explain it. While you read it, I will beg the use of your stable-men or master of horse: our poor Cesare is like to collapse from exhaustion.”

The man opened the letter and read it, then looked quite astonished: his entire face changed to that of open, warm welcome. “Why, you should have said you were guests of the Duchessa Stretta! She is away at present, but her friend the lady d’Organa says you ought to be given every luxury and respect. I am honored,  _ principessa _ Renata di Palatine, most holy daughter of Rome.” He bowed to Cadella, and Renata almost choked, hiding it by turning and pretending to fuss with the harness-strap. 

“Oh,” said Cadella, taking it in stride, “the honor is all mine,  _ signore… _ ?”

“Detto,” he said, smiling. “You may call me only Detto: I am steward to all the house and the lands when the duchessa is away, and I shall keep you in good hands.” He shouted a few orders in French, and three boys came running from the stables almost at once, bowing and quickly taking the horse and coach. “Come inside, come inside: I will have the cook make breakfast.”

“Oh! And this is my maid, Della,” said Cadella, gesturing at Renata. “She is famished, too, and we are quite inseparable. She must eat with us.”

“With— ah,” said Detto, looking surprised. “Is it the fashion in Rome to let the servants eat with the nobles? Nevertheless, you shall have your way, Lady Renata.”

“Thank you,” said Cadella kindly, and as they went up the steps, a familiar figure appeared in the door, curtseying and reaching for cloaks. Plump, sweet of figure and face, with a cap and gown— Renata halted in her step, sudden tears springing in her eyes, and Detto turned, not seeing her, but looking only at Bibi— for it was Bibi!

Detto hardly noticed. “Ah! And here is my housekeeper: she is a good woman, come newly from Rome, who— why, Bambina, what is—”

“Renata,” gasped Bibi, looking right over Cadella’s silk-clad shoulder. “Oh, oh, my little queen, my lady, my princess: you have been saved alive, God be praised!”

“Bibi!” cried Renata, weeping, and flung herself into the woman’s arms, clinging to her in gratitude and joy as Detto looked on in bewilderment.

“Well,” said Cadella, smiling shyly, “I must beg your forgiveness for the masquerade, sir: we dressed in each other’s clothing on the road as a precaution, and I confess we forgot it until you spoke.”

Detto was still agape. “Then this— the maid is—”

“I am Renata di Palatine,” said Rei, drawing herself up with as much dignity as she could, “and this is my friend Cadella, who got me out safe from Rome. Please forgive us for the deception, sir; it was not meant to insult you.”

“Forgive me: the letter says you carry a ring, a ring as a token of your name,” said Detto. “I did not ask before, but…”

Bibi seemed to swell with indignant fury. “As if I do not know my lady Renata, who I looked after these months past?”

“Peace, Bibi; here it is,” said Renata, lifting her hand, where her golden ring with the irises glinted in the winter sun. “Now, shall we have our breakfast, Signore Detto?”

* * *

Solo had been able to hear Rosa’s voice, high and loud in indignation through the wall between their cells, and that was a good thing, for if she had strength to be angry, she was not being treated as roughly as he was. Within a day, she had been set free, her voice drifting away like a streak of cloud on a bright summer day, and he had heard her no more. There were only the rough questions of his interrogators, and the bright bursts of agony that laid his flesh bare, blooming into his body over the constant pain below, the pain of being hung from his wrists, the pain, pain, endless pain.

“Confess,” was the endless mantra, “confess, confess.”  _ How fitting, _ he thought between fevered agonies of mind,  _ that this is my punishment, after I did the same to the Jews of Genoa. _ Confess? A man might confess to anything— to eating a child whole, to drinking blood, to the highest blasphemies: as long as the endless torment ceased. Solo thought he might know his questioners; shadow and flame flashed before his eyes. Were they Cardinals, Orsini? Colonna? Old Romano? Were they devils from Hell? He could not tell. It did not matter. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his mouth as dry as bone. They would give him water to drink, but only every two days, and the torches were hot, driven into his skin alight, burning him, making him scream. When they left him alone, it was only for an hour at a time, not long enough to sleep, but long enough to shiver in the cold stone cell. 

He did not know what day it was. He did not know how much longer this torment must endure, how much he had already endured: all he knew was that he confessed again and again to falsehoods, to the sins of fornication with three nameless maids and Rosa, to sodomy, to depraved and despicable acts he had not known existed and that had to be explained to him.  _ Yes, _ he said again and again through lips that could hardly move,  _ yes, I did them all, I did it, I confess: God save me, Christ save me, I have sinned, sinned, sinned.  _

Not a single inquisitor demanded to know if he had committed fornication with the Pope’s holy granddaughter. Solo supposed that was some small mercy: they suspected nothing, and he would not be forced to reveal her sin, as well as his. He clung to that last thread of hope: that something would still be his, hid from the Pope at the end of this.  The torches danced close, and he began to weep aloud at the sight of open flame: burning, fire, Hell. His flesh burned, his hair singed, torment laid him open, and it seemed to never cease.

_ I am in Hell. God grant me grace. God help me. God save me. _

They cut him down after some time. He did not know how much, only that when he fell naked to the cold floor, into a pool of his own half-dried, sticky, blood, his arms were numb and cold, his body screamed in agony, and his shoulders were on fire, aching from so long supporting his weight. His questioners left him, no doubt to report to the Pope, but he could not bring himself to think about such things. It was as if his mind had shrank down, down into that of an animal, whose only concerns were shelter and warmth and a will to live, not of complex matters of politics. Solo shivered on the stone, falling into a fitful half-sleep. He could not bring himself to crawl to the corner of the room.

When he woke a short time later, he had enough strength to get on his knees and painfully pull himself to the corner, where he huddled and forced himself to look at his body. It had changed, the topography of it all ruined and marred, and he pretended it was not his, that it was some other man’s, so that he might map it with his eyes and not retch. First, he took note of his extremities. Both large toenails had been pulled off at the root: his feet were burned and blackened with soot and blood. Solo, shuddering, pulled his eyes from the clots of blood and looked at his hands. They had been above his head, out of reach: praise God, the only damage there was the gash on his finger where his Cardinal’s ring had been wrenched off by force.  The rest of his body was so battered that he could hardly look at it: his flesh had been burnt with hot iron and flame, his skin broken, welts striping him, tatters of flesh hanging from his beaten side (and his back, if the pain was anything to judge). Every breath of air became a weak gasp: he was sure something in his side was cracked. A rib, most like, or two: he was streaked in filth, there was no telling what bruising lay under his torn and burnt skin.

The door to the cell opened. Solo shied away from the torchlight, the fire that was surely come to burn him: a glittering vision of white and gold assailed his eyes. “No,” he muttered, terror choking him: it must be the angel Gabriel, here to catch up his spirit and take him before the judgment seat of God. “No…” He raised his arms, shielding his eyes and weeping: he could not die yet, he had promised someone that he would do something he had not yet done, but what that was he had forgotten.

“Tell us,” said a voice he knew, “how long has it been?”

“Nine days, Holiness,” said another voice. 

“And he has confessed to fornication with those maids?”

“Yes. He has confessed to everything, Holiness: we have laid before him all manner of sins, and he has confessed. The maid found in his bed confessed to fornication, and has been sent to do penance. The other three maids have not been found, but several guards said they saw three go up and one swears he saw three maids returning to the kitchens late last night, who said they were coming back from entertaining a Cardinal. Doubtless they are too shamed to come forward.”

“Indeed,” said the Pope. “Indeed. Contrite, we are sure, for their sins—has he confessed to the sin of forcing them, I wonder? Rape is a weighty charge for a Cardinal.”

“I confess,” Solo croaked, hoarse. He could not stop the tears: they spilled down his bleeding face and stung his flesh. “I confess: I forced them, they came against their will.”  _ Please, do not bring the torches so close. Please.  _ He could not get further against the cold stone wall: he was trapped, and the flames were bright and hot and promised more agony.

“I see,” said the Pope, in the air of a benevolent old grandfather, “that he is broken. That is good; he can truly be remade in our image.” The white mantle swept close, and the Pope looked down at him. “Look at me, Beniamino,” he said softly, fatherly. 

Solo looked up, trembling. He knew he hated the man, knew that if he had been any stronger he would kill him, but there was no room for loathing or clever plots in his mind, so overrun it was with terror. “H-Holiness,” he stammered.

“Do you know, my son, what the punishment is for rape?”

He shut his eyes, frantically trying to gather enough moisture in his mouth to swallow. “ _ C-castrazione _ ,” he panted.

The Pope looked pleased. “Indeed. And yet I shall not deprive you of your manhood: I cannot have a war with a eunuch as my right-hand man. Besides, it seems a test of your faith, and to remove it entirely would not be trusting God. Am I not gracious?”

“Praise God for your grace,” whispered Solo, more tears falling. His mouth was trembling; he could not stop weeping.

“Have his fifty lashes for atonement been given?” demanded Sisinnius, looking at the other Cardinal.

“No, Holiness. Not yet.”

“Good. Give him sixty-two: the other twelve shall be to remind him of the Apostles and the trials they suffered for Christ.” Sisinnius took Solo by the chin and jerked his face up so that their eyes met: Solo could hardly see. One of his eyes was swollen shut. “You will be saved, my son,” whispered the Pope, and for a moment Solo believed him. “Through suffering, salvation will be found, and I find… that penance inflicted upon a body is a sweet balm to one’s soul. It is being said that angels caught Renata up to Heaven: tell me true, my son— where is she?”

“I swear by the blood of Christ,” Solo whispered, tears stinging his torn face, “on the martyrs and apostles, on my own soul, I tell you truly that I do not know where she is, Holiness.”

“And if you knew,” said the Pope, soft and dangerous, “would you tell me, my child?” His white-gloved finger pressed into Solo’s face, directly into the raw, re-opened gash in his cheek, and Solo cried out, writhing in his grip at the agony that burst through his head like fire.

“Yes,” he sobbed, recoiling from the hand as best he could. “Yes, Holiness, I would.” 

_ Praise God that I do not know. Praise God. _

The old, wrinkled face split into a leering smile. “Good. Good.” He took his hand away, the pure white stained scarlet. “Sixty-two lashes: do not forget. I will visit you again soon, my son.”

* * *

Renata sat at table with Cadella and Detto. She liked the man well enough, even if he was a little preoccupied: he was tall, slim of figure, with sandy hair and a well-formed face. He had been serving the Duchessa Stretta for years, he told them over their breakfast of bread, goat’s cheese, milk, fruit preserves, and olives, and he had never known a kinder mistress, nor one more inclined to hear the voices of her own servants. “She is a great thinker, you see, and believes a day will come when all are equal in the eyes of the world as they are in the eyes of God, and that the days of kings and princes will end.”

“What a remarkable thought!” said Renata, awed: she had never heard such an opinion before. Grandfather would have likely not allowed her to think such things at all. “And in this day, will the Church still hold power? For I cannot see how the monasteries and nunneries would run without money from wealthy benefactors, nor how the Church might go on without wealthy princes and kings to support it: they seem to be all entwined.”

“Ah,” said Detto, looking uncomfortable. “Well, she believes that the Church may dwindle in strength as time goes on, one day becoming nothing, with all men free to believe what they will.”

“A radical and a heretic,” said Renata, nodding sagely. “I should like to speak with this great lady very much indeed: I might learn something new.”

Cadella laughed behind her napkin as Bibi brought a tray of dried summer fruit, set it down, and took her seat at Renata’s left. “And does the lady sponsor any hermitages, or monasteries?”

“She does sponsor the Prato Cathedral: surely you have heard of it?” Detto chewed thoughtfully.

“No, I have not.”

“Ah, well— then I shall tell you: it is said that when the Virgin Mary ascended to Heaven, being caught up by God as Enoch and Elijah were caught up, deathless and rejoicing, that only Saint Thomas, the doubter, witnessed this extraordinary event, and that the Blessed Virgin cast down to him her girdle, saying it would be a token by which the other apostles would believe.”

“I had heard it was the opposite: that Saint Thomas was journeying from India and the Blessed Virgin appeared to him on the road, giving him her girdle, for he was not present for the Assumption,” said Bibi, frowning.

Detto waved a hand absently. “Detail, detail: what matters is that the girdle itself is housed as a relic at the Prato Cathedral, in the  _ Cappella del Sacro Cingolo,  _ and many go and pay a pretty penny for the privilege of seeing it there, especially women expecting a child: the Virgin is said to be a fine help in such matters. The Duchessa is a benefactor of the Cathedral, for it has a marvelous display of art and fresco and sculpture, and she is a great lover of art. You ought to go and see it, if you can, ladies.”

“Perhaps,” said Renata, sipping her milk. “I think I should like to know,  _ signore,  _ what was in the letter that was sent along with us. What has her ladyship d’Organa said about us?”

“Oh, certainly; you may read it if you like,” said Detta, and handed her the letter. Renata opened it, brushing her hand across the broken seal: white wax, with a figure like a butterfly stamped into the center. This, then, must be some crest of the house of d’Organa, as houses had various symbols for themselves: roses, bulls, roosters, lions, irises… She looked down at the ink on the paper.

_ The Lady Leah d’Organa Solo, by the grace of God still in health of mind and body. To the illustrious Don Detto, steward of the Duchessa Amalia Stretta. They who carry this letter flee persecution in Rome, and must be given safety and harbor in Florence, until you are written to and instructed otherwise. By God’s grace, we exhort you to tell no one who they are: one is the beloved principessa of Rome, Renata di Palatine: the other is her companion, Cadella Conniente, a steadfast and true maid of my own household. The lady flees from her grandfather the Pope and must not return to Rome until she is called for. War is coming, and she must be kept safe from his hands: you will remember the old deeds of di Palatine, signore. She is adored by the city, and all Rome believes her to be driven mad by her grandfather’s cruelties towards her, so she has escaped safe— she must not fall into the hands of di Palatine, nor any of his allies, else she meet the fate of all di Palatines who go against their patriarch. In the name of God, peace. _

Renata set the letter down carefully. Most of it had been what she expected, but the last part was bewildering: the fate of all di Palatines who went against Grandfather? What could that mean? She had never known any other family but Grandfather: now that she considered it, that was strange. Her mother and father she could not even remember, but sometimes she fancied she recalled their faces, though she did not know how true the image she brought to mind was: her father, tall and kind; her mother, like herself, only older. There had never been an aunt, or uncle, or cousin: no brothers or sisters or even a grandmother— it had ever only been Renata and Grandfather in Rome, and after that, Renata in Ostia alone, with only Rosa to lean on for friendship.  _ What happened to my mother? My father? Where did they go? _

There was no time to wonder about such things, however: breakfast was over, rooms and a hot bath were waiting, and there was Bibi to gossip with: she was sure the maid would have such a tale as to astonish her.

* * *

Rosa paced back and forth in the room she had been given.  _ Given _ , a word not suitable, no: she had been flung in here, a holding cell, with only the clothes on her back, and an awful bishop had come in to demand her confession once more. She had given it, and then was subjected to an hour of muttering the  _ Ave Maria  _ on her knees on the cold stone floor before the bishop had left her there without anything but a lumpy pallet to sleep on. She supposed it was a good thing she had not been tortured, and that the Pope had not recognized her: Rosa had been placing her hopes on the old man’s lack of truly noticing anyone who was not, or could not be, an asset to his causes, and it had paid off in full. 

A door clanged somewhere nearby, and there was a raucous shout and scuffle. She darted to the door, listening: it seemed to be three men, by the sounds of their voices. 

“He’s heavy,” said one. “Could they not have taken an arm, that he might be lighter?”

Another laughed. “His Holiness wants him whole as can be,  _ signore _ : I would not question why. Get him in: after that we must go and fetch the physician.”

Rosa pressed her face to the iron grate in the door: she could just make out a wide expanse of pale flesh, an arm stained and marred with blood, soot, and grime, being slung between two shoulders into the cell beside hers. Her heart almost stopped beating.  _ The Cardinal! _ It could be no other: she held her breath, crept back from the door, and began to sing a children’s rhyme she remembered from the days spent looking after Renata. It was the only thing she could think to do.

_ Ding, dong, big bell’s tones _

_ On the porch sit four old crones. _

_ See one spin, see one snip without a flaw, _

_ See the third shape hats of straw, _

_ Silver knives the fourth makes dread _

_ To chop off the cold wind's head. _

“Is that the maid?” asked another of the men with a grunt. It was faint, through the stone, but Rosa could hear.

The other one sighed. “The one he used like a whore? Yes. I tell you, nobody thought it possible: he was always so pious. Hypocrite.” There was a scuffle and a thud, and a long, pitiful moan: Rosa’s hair stood up at the back of her neck. “What became of the guard, the one who brought them up?”

“Oh, the Moor? The Pope decided he was innocent: he had no choice but to obey the commands of the Cardinal.”

_ Pinno! Pinno yet lives! _ Rosa scrambled to the door again. “I beg you,” she called out, “kind men, good men: will you let me speak to Pinno?”

There was a laugh, and then a man’s face sprang into view outside the grate, making her jump. “What do you want with the guard who obeyed the commands of the man who sullied you, girl?”

“I wish to forgive him,” she said as piously as she could, and the man looked confused, then exchanged a look with the other man, who was out of her sight. “Will you not let me forgive him, sir? My conscience as a Christian demands it. I beg you.”

The man looked as if he was trying to decide whether or not to say anything at all, but finally spoke. “I… I see you are a penitent maid, whose sins were not all her own doing: I will see if I can find him, and tell him where you are, good woman.”

“I thank you,” she said, “in God’s name. Bless you.”

When they had gone, Rosa went to the stone wall, knocking on it. “Solo?” she whispered, frightened: what if a guard was listening down here? What had he confessed to? Was all lost? “Solo! If you live, make some sound; give me a sign!”

A low, drawn-out whimper floated through a crack in the wall, and Rosa scrabbled at it with her nails, frantic to speak to him. “Solo? Solo?” The plaster, ancient and dry, was coming away. Heartened, she reached up for her hair-pin, and stabbed at the crumbling old stuff: her hands were bleeding, her nails chipping, but still she persevered until her skirts were dusted with white and a hole had been made between the cells. She opened the hole wide enough to put her two fingers in, and put her eye up to it. “Solo, do you hear me?”

He had a window in his cell, like hers: it was midday, for the bright light of the sun was shining down into his cell like a painting of the Annunciation, illuminating something that lay on the stone floor, strewn with straw. Rosa had not realized she was looking at a man at first when her eye fell upon him. She had thought it was some joke, and that they had thrown a haunch of butcher’s meat into the cell to play some cruel joke on her: then it moved, a head of dark hair scraping the straw, and she understood that she was looking at Cardinal Solo’s back.

Rosa closed her eyes, bile rising in her gorge. She was a strong-stomached young woman, and not one who was likely to faint, or be sick at the sight of blood, but this… “Solo,” she said again, eyes still shut against the sight of him, “can you hear me?”

“Rosa,” he said, faint as the wind. “You… are safe.”

“I am in a cell. Pinno will come— he must come. Solo, I beg you to tell me what you said to them.” She opened her eyes once more, pressed to the opening in the wall, and made herself look at his body. He was naked, all a mass of raw meat from thigh to neck, and the air inside smelt of iron and death.  _ Thank God it is winter: there are no flies.  _ His hair was caked in blood, so stiff that some was glued to his neck. 

“I told them… I confessed…” His voice trailed off into mumbling in Latin, and Rosa almost threw herself against the wall with agitation. 

“Confessed what?” she demanded. “What did you confess? Tell me what you said!  _ Solo! _ ”

He groaned, and sounded as if he was weeping. “Confessed to… fornication. You. The three… maids. Rape… sodomy, all of it: whatever they wished to... hear me say… I said. I was asked… nothing of the  _ principessa…  _ they wanted to know where... she had gone. I know nothing. I said... nothing. Let me... die in peace.”

“You are not going to die,” she said, relieved and horrified. “They are bringing a physician. You must stay alive.”

“Thirsty,” he moaned, head moving. “Water. I beg you.”

“They left you some— in that bucket by the far wall, with the cup, but you will not be able to reach it.” Rosa knocked out some more of the wall with her hands. “Wait, wait here: I have my own bucket with water, and you have only to come to the wall: I have made a hole here big enough to pass a cup through.” She did not wait for an answer, but got to her feet and went to the bucket, pulling it over to the wall and peering back through. “Solo?”

“Leave me to die,” came the response, weak and low.

Rosa raised the cup and let the water splash back down into the bucket. At the sound, Solo’s head jerked up, his profile coming into view: he let out a rattling gasp, and thrust one arm out below his body, trying to raise himself up. Rosa wished she could help him: he was only six feet from the wall, yet the crawl to the hole was as long as an eternity. His hands were scraped and bruised, his body filthy, his mouth dry and cracked, pale, bleeding. “Here,” she said, and put her hand with the full cup through the hole, trying to peer around her wrist to see what she was doing.

Solo lifted his head and found the cup with his mouth. He choked as he tried to swallow, but got most of it down his throat as Rosa tipped it for him. “More,” he begged, on all fours, his head hanging low between his ravaged shoulders.

Rosa pulled her hand back in, filled the cup again, and put it back through: he drank again, more quickly this time, and asked her for more again: three more cups, and he was sated. “You must lie quietly,” she said, peering through the hole at him. Distantly, the sound of footsteps came to her ears, and she withdrew, frightened. “I think that is your physician: hush,” she whispered through the crack, and put the chunks of plaster and stone back into the hole, blocking it well enough from sight. 

“Rosa,” she heard Solo say, feebly, “Rosa, do not go—”

The door to his cell creaked open, and Rosa heard voices, low and quiet, murmuring— then Solo began to scream, and she could do nothing but clap her hands to her ears and pray for it to end.

* * *

Florence was chilly at night, but Renata did not mind it so much here: the cold felt brisk, not deadly, and a hot bath had chased the last memories of ice from her bones.  _ It is not so cold anyway, _ she thought, sitting before the glass in her room,  _ as I know in the far North snow falls, and it is far colder.  _ It had been cold all day, even witting by the fire with Bibi and hearing her tell of how she had gotten safely away from Rome with the help of a friend of Pavo di Damerone had offered no warmth.

She reached up to take the pins from her hair and her hand froze midway: she had not washed it, but left it up, and the braids so carefully done were still in place. He had an eye for balance and symmetry, she saw that now: the plaits had been done so well that they had not moved, and they were not too far forward or back on her head. 

_ He does not care for me, _ she thought bitterly. Why should she keep this, the last thing he had done for her that remained on her body like a crest, a brand; visible to all? It felt suddenly like a badge of sin, proof of their fornications, and Renata felt soiled, dirty and used despite the bath she had taken. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she reached up quickly, hands trembling, and took out the pins. The braids fell down around her shoulders, undone, and she used her fingers to roughly comb out the plaits until all her hair was one thick mass, flowing to her waist all loose.

She had never thought her hair pretty before: she had wanted it to be golden when she was a child, like the angels in the paintings at church, and she had prayed fervently for God to do some miracle and change the color as she slept.  _ It need not be as I wake, dear God, _ she had whispered, a child of seven,  _ I will close my eyes so nobody can see Thy work being done. _ And yet she had woken morning after morning with the same plain brown hair, and when she had cried to Grandfather he had boxed her ear and told her that God did not have the time to spend on such nonsense, and that she would better be served going to confession and answering for her vanity. 

But Beniamino… he had looked at her hair with something like awe: he had asked her to take it down, and said he had dreamed of doing it the day he had seen her in the Apostolic Court. He had run his hands through a lock with reverence; he had not even let himself indulge in touching all of it. Renata shut her eyes, pretending for a moment she could feel his gentle, warm hands again: clasped over hers in prayer, resting on her cheek, stroking her hair.  _ He thought it was beautiful, _ she thought, her throat choking up with grief.  _ He told me so… _ but he had told her he did not love her, even after saying he wished to see her again before the end.  _ Liar. Serpent. He said that, but he meant it not: he cast me away and said he was a monster who could not love.  _

Renata’s cheeks were wet. She furiously scrubbed at them, sniffling, for crying would do no good, and she had no reason to do it, not when she was safe away with Cadella and Bibi, among friends. “Stop crying,” she ordered herself angrily, looking into the glass. “Cease at once: you are a grown woman of nearly twenty, and there are a hundred things more worthy of tears to weep over.” It did no good. She turned away from the glass, sobbing outright, and lay down on her bed, drawing her knees to her breast like a child. “I should have stayed,” she wept aloud, the tears wetting the bedclothes beneath her head. “Oh, God: he is likely being tormented, or killed, and I have run like a coward. He will die, whether he loves me truly or no, and it is my fault.”

“Lady!” exclaimed Bibi, who had come in, hearing the noise, and Renata wept even more to hear that kind voice of concern that she loved so much. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Bibi,” she sobbed, “I left the Cardinal in the Apostolic Palace, and he said he loved me not, though I thought he did: he used me roughly and bid be begone, and I— I wish I hated him for it, but I cannot, I cannot hate him no matter how I try!”

“My lady, my sweet lady,” said Bibi comfortingly, sitting by her on the bed and patting her shoulder. “Many a time in the world a lady loves a man and it is not returned: or a man loves a woman and it is not returned— there is no need for such turmoil.”

“O, you do not understand,” cried Renata in a passion of frustration, “for Pavo di Damerone has a particular affection towards you, and got you out safe by a friend’s deeds and sent you here: you are loved, and I am not.”

“Now, you stop that at once,” said Bibi in a very different tone, one that made Renata gulp back her tears and start in shock. “You are loved, my Renata: loved by Rome, loved by all who know you: only a devil could hate you.”

“Then Solo is a devil!” insisted Renata. “For he said so himself: he said he was a monster who could not love anyone.”

“Then he is a devil: what has that to do with you?” demanded Bibi, throwing her hands up into the air. She sighed, and her voice softened as she shook her head and put her hands in her lap. “My dear lady, you are very young, but you should have had your first heartbreak years back: it is the natural order of things in that regard. You may count yourself lucky: there was no lewd behavior nor fornication between you and your Cardinal, for he truly withstands temptations like no man I have ever seen, and you are innocent— therefore your heart cannot be too badly broken.” Renata gulped down a sob and looked away in guilt, but it was too late: Bambina’s shrewd eyes caught her expression. “Oh,  _ Renata _ ,” she said in horror.

“Oh, leave me alone,” said Renata, her temper rising. “You have no room to speak on the matter, not when you were cavorting about with di Damerone—”

Bibi slapped her. It was not a hard slap, but it shocked Renata enough to silence her, and she stared at her maid with wide, wet eyes. “I am not a  _ principessa, _ Renata: I am only a maid, and my business is my own: my sins are confessed every Mass as they should be, and between God and I there is nothing hid!” The woman’s eyes brimmed with angry tears. “Can you say the same?”

“No,” whispered Renata, shamed. “No. I am sorry, Bibi: that was wrong of me to say. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“And I beg yours for the blow,” said Bambina, wiping her eyes. “You ought to consider this: if I had not romped with Pavo, then I might not be here with you to chastise you so, and you would weep for having lost your dear Bibi.”

“O! a fate worse than any I can imagine. I am sorry,” Renata said again, smiling, and embraced the woman, who returned it warmly. “How did you manage to have a message sent to di Damerone?”

“Well,” said Bibi, drawing back and looking very pink, “I can read, you know, and write: I wrote him a letter recalling to mind a— a particular act he enjoyed, and said that if he did not get me safe out of Rome and among friends soon he would never, ah, experience it again— well, a man had arrived in a matter of days, so that tells you all.”

“An act! What sort of act?” Renata was fascinated: what other acts could there be beside the one she knew already?

“Oh, never you mind what sort of act,” said Bibi, flushed; “it was a sin and I have been absolved of it already: now go to sleep.”

* * *

Rosa knelt by the hole in the wall between her cell and Solo’s. The physician had departed hours ago, and Solo seemed to be sleeping, insensible on his pallet: the man was a Moorish doctor, and had given him opium to dull the pain of having his wounds all washed and cleansed and bound. She could hear his shallow, soft breathing, interspersed with moans as he dreamed. 

As she had so often during the past hours, she sat and reviewed the circumstances in which she found herself: Solo had told her that he would be likely killed, or forced to work toward the Pope’s purposes once the inquisition had ceased. She had been accused of nothing worse than fornication, but it was not as if it mattered in light of the greater things moving about her like a river over a stone: if she played at being pious and repentant then she might be set free, and after that, she would be able to make her way out of the Palace and back to Lady d’Organa. If she was not set free… she would still have a friend in Pinno, who could be trusted, and was under no suspicion by anyone. 

It was evening, the light in her cell fading from rusty red to a dim blue. Rosa had never been the most faithful of girls, but she could not help muttering a  _ Paternoster _ in the dusk: perhaps some angel was indeed close by to hear her prayers.  _ Please,  _ she thought, drawing her cloak tighter about her.  _ Please, if anyone hears me… may I be set free, that I may bring about an end to this false Pope.  _ A true Pope would have known, communing with God, that she was a maid yet in body, and that Solo had not touched her: yet this one had accused her of whoredom and had her questioned, and treated Solo cruelly. Rosa had not overmuch concerned herself with the politics of the Lady d’Organa, instead focusing her mind on how she might help Renata, but now she found herself thrust into the midst of the lion’s den, and knew the truth. 

A rattle at the door startled her from her prayers, and she stood on stiff legs, fearing some new torment as the door swung open. “Do not touch me,” she said, stepping back in fear as a man entered, his body in shadow. She had no weapon, so prepared to use her hands, raising them in fists. “On pain of— of death!”

“Rosa?” he said, and she knew that voice: Pinno! She gasped, dropped her hands, and ran for him, catching him up in an embrace: he had come! He was not in his armor, wearing only a doublet and plain clothing, and felt wonderfully firm and warm beneath her cold flesh as he brought his hands up to pull her close. “Rosa— you are not hurt, are you? Tell me they did not hurt you.”

“I am unharmed, save in the matter of some pride,” she explained, half-giddy as she pulled back. “Oh, Pinno, it is awful: they have torn Solo all to bits and put him in the cell next to me. Something must be done to help him.”

“I heard,” he said, and his warm, strong hand rested on her shoulder. Pinno smelled of leather, oil, and steel, and Rosa wanted to embrace him close again, to breathe it in, that he might never leave her. “I have here the keys: I said no one else must hear your words of forgiveness to me, and put on the gravest face I could. All the jailers and guards have gone up to drink in the kitchens. We might open his door and minister to him.”

“Forgiveness. Yes. That is what I said.” Rosa’s mind was reeling: it all seemed too much to grasp. “How much time have we?”

“Some time.  _ Ya Allah, _ I thought you dead,” he whispered, voice suddenly thick with some emotion she had never heard from him before. “Nobody would tell me a thing, and with Gio— Jannah gone, I have no pair of eyes to see behind walls.”

“I am not dead,” she said firmly, taking his warm hand. “Not yet. But I know now that the Pope is no true Pope, and that he wishes to make war, and I have seen enough of war. It brought me to this country as a child, and it took my name, the name I was born with; it killed my mother and father, and my sister, and here I am, a stranger in a strange land, and will always be so: should I return to my own land, I would be strange to them, too, as I have— I have forgotten the tongue.” She did not want to cry, but tears welled up anyway. It was dark. He could not see. That was some small mercy. 

“Then you and I are not so very different,” said Pinno softly, “are we?”

“No,” Rosa said. “No, not at all.” She wiped her eyes. “Let us go and see the Cardinal.”

Pinno guided her out and lit a torch, and by its light they opened the cell holding Solo. He lay on his side, bandaged in linen like a corpse, and Rosa made herself kneel by his head as Pinno held the torch high so she might see. The wound on his face had been washed: the knitting flesh was healing in dried, dark blots. She wanted to touch him to stir him awake, but there was no place on his body that would not give him pain to touch. Her fingers tapped lightly on his brow, the dried blood there crusting and flaking away. “Cardinal,” she whispered. “Wake: I beg you.”

His eyes fluttered open, but he did not look at her: the pupils were black and absent as an empty grave. “Dark,” he said faintly, like a man asleep. Pinno brought the torch closer, and Solo jerked to awareness: he cried out and shielded his face. _“_ _ No _ _!_ Leave it!” A sob tore from his throat at the pain.

“Set it back, Pinno— Cardinal, we mean no harm.” Rosa watched as the bandage on his shoulder began to seep red: the movement had torn his healing flesh again. “You must not move. You are hurt.”

“Rosa,” he said, looking into her face with some difficulty. “You are free?”

“Only because Pinno came to let me in to see you. Water— you must drink water.” Pinno pulled the bucket over, and Rosa caught the cup up, filling it and putting it to his cracked, dry mouth, carefully holding his head up as Pinno put the torch in its bracket on the wall. “There. Slowly.”

“I did not… know I was so thirsty,” he rasped, gulping down water. “Something… it is so... slow. Dream. Is this a dream?”

Rosa shook her head. “The physician gave you opium: it is made of poppies, and gives relief from pain.”

“Relief from pain,” he repeated, blinking. “I had thought to die. It would be better if I died: then I would not be a tool of the Devil when I am healed.” His eyes slid to Pinno’s belt, where a dagger hung. “Pinno… it would be simple. A cut at the throat.”

“No,” said Pinno sternly. “I will not take your life: to spill your blood would be a sin, as you have done nothing to warrant it, nor are you my enemy.”

“I confessed openly in court to rape and fornication,” said Solo, voice like gravel. “I will be forced to sign a confession. No man would stand against you if you did it. No man would blame you…”

Pinno’s jaw flexed in the torchlight. “I care not: you have done nothing by my reckoning to earn death.”

Solo made a sound as if he was weeping, but no tears formed on that dry, ruined face. “I drove out the Jews of Genoa, Pinno: I drove out your kinsmen, Moors, I killed, I lied, I—”

“That is not my quarrel,” said Pinno. “That lies betwixt you and God: I say again a third time that I will not raise my blade to your flesh. Besides, to command another to kill one’s self is as the sin of killing one’s self, and do not both our faiths teach that such an act is damnable?”

“Damn you,” sobbed Solo, dry and coughing. “You have denied me thrice, as Saint Peter... get you gone from here: if you will not take my miserable life from me, at least take my words to heart. They will find you if you remain. Get… get Rosa out, get her safe away: Rome will be in an uproar of war soon, and she will be forgotten in the chaos. Take her to… to my mother, if that pleases you. Send her to the lady Renata, wherever she be now. Anywhere. So long as she is away.”

“Cardinal—” Rosa began to protest, still holding the cup to his lips, but he stopped her.

“You have a gentle and good heart, and you… you sang for me. I heard you through the wall. Lady, you must go: war is no place for the good or gentle.” He shut his eyes, his face relaxing. “Let me sleep. He will come again for me.”

“Then I will sing you to sleep,” whispered Rosa, tears blurring her eyes: even in the face of death, he wished to protect her, a maid he hardly knew. “You be still and silent, and I will sing again for you.” She cast about in her mind, trying to think of any song at all, but could only remember fragments of a song from long ago, so long ago that she was afraid she could not remember the words of her native tongue… but as she began to softly hum it, the words came back, as easily and gently as the sun rising over a green, faraway field.

_ Người ơi người ở đừng về _

_ Người về em vẫn khóc thầm _

_ Đôi bên vạt áo ướt đầm như mưa _

_ Người ơi người ở đừng về _

_ Người về em vẫn trông theo, _

_ Trông nước nước chảy, _

_ Trông bèo bèo trôi _

_ Người ơi người ở đừng về _

_ Người về xin chớ đứng ngồi với ai _

_ Người ơi người ở đừng về. _

_ Oh, my dear, do not go home. _

_ People on all sides cry in silence, _

_ and the sides of my dress are wet with tears like rain. _

_ Oh, my dear, do not go home. _

_ I watch you leave until I have lost sight of you, _

_ your departing is like water running, _

_ like a water hyacinth drifting slowly. _

_ Oh, my dear, do not go home. _

_ Please don't sit with anyone else who returns home. _

_ Oh, my dear, do not go home. _

When she was finished, Solo’s eyes were shut, and his breast rose and fell in soft, even breaths. Rosa wiped her nose and stood, turning to Pinno. “I do not know where I should go,” she whispered, feeling more lost than she had as a child of eight.

“With me,” he said firmly, and his dark eyes blazed like coals in his face. “I will get you out. Only— tell me, what was your name, the one this country took from you?”

Rosa held her chin high. “Hoa,” she said softly, her tongue used once more to the movements of her mother tongue, unspoken for so long.

“ _ Hwa _ ,” he tried, clumsy at the pronunciation so strange to him. “ _ Hoa.  _ It is beautiful. What does it mean?”

“A flower,” answered Rosa, “you know, or a— a blossom. They gave me the name  _ Rosa _ because it was the first one anyone thought of, but I suppose the meaning was a coincidence. What was yours?”

Pinno paused a moment as he took the torch off the wall. “Before I was Pinno, I was only called by the number I was given by the slavers who took me and sold me in Portugal. I was a child younger than ten then. Before that?” He turned and looked at her again as he wrenched the torch from the bracket. “I do not remember. It has been too long.” She stood there, silent in the flickering light before he sighed and lifted the torch. “Come, then, Hoa: there is no point in waiting. I will take you from this place, should I die in the attempt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Detto is our old friend Geno Namit! "Namit" is "named" in Hindi, which doesn't translate super well into Italian, (and I couldn't very well have yet another character named De Something) so I just translated "nicknamed" nto Italian, and we get "detto".   
> \- Cadella's surname is another play on words. "Connix" directly translates to "with nobody" so there we go: With Nobody: "conniente".   
> -The two songs that Rosa sings in the cell are real Italian and Vietnamese folk songs. I only pray I did not completely fuck up the translation from Vietnamese. If you want to hear them Youtube has some recordings!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have updated the tags as usual to reflect that the tags contain spoilers because the spoilers are also triggers! 
> 
> If you want a full summary of the chapter and/or a CW for the triggers please scroll to the END chapter notes before you read the chapter. CW comes first and summary comes second.

**FEBRUARY, 1493**

“His Eminence, Cardinal Beniamino Solo!” proclaimed the young man at the door whose duty it was to announce guests of the Apostolic Court. The Pope sat enthroned on his white and gold chair, slippered feet resting on his stool, and did not move, a soft smile playing about his aged mouth as the doors to the Sala Regia swung open and every head in the court turned, the susurration of speech and conversation diminished to silence.

The whole of the Court knew by now that Solo had been seeking worldly pleasures while Renata di Palatine had been stolen away in the night: for this crime, the Pope had been displeased greatly, and it had been months since anyone had seen Solo in the flesh. Some claimed he had died, others said he had been dragged to Hell alive by the Devil, and some spoke of the time he had stood naked in the court and defied the Pope (whispering, lest the Pope hear anyone speaking of the incident and cause a man to lose his tongue), claiming he must have been punished greatly for such rebellion, but nobody knew what was truth and what was conjecture. Most were sure beyond all doubt that he had retreated to chastise his own flesh in all piety: he was known to be a penitent and stern man.

The man who walked through those great golden doors was hardly recognizable as the Cardinal Solo the College remembered. Dressed in the ordinary scarlet silks and wools of a Cardinal instead of the customary black cassock that he had been wont to wear, he walked with a limp, and he seemed to have aged ten years in three and a half months: his hair was longer, and threaded liberally with silver, and he had grown a beard. The wound on his face had healed wholly, but had left an ugly, twisted rope of raised flesh dividing his right cheek from eye to jaw. There was no life in his dark eyes as he made his way up the center of the room and knelt with some difficulty before the Holy Father. 

“Welcome, our son,” said the Pope, raising him up by the shoulders and giving him a dry kiss on both cheeks, “back to our fold. You have been missed: we have need of you at our side.”

“Thank you, your Holiness,” said Solo, voice dull and flat as a squalid pool of water. “I humbly beg your pardon for my absence.”

“The man looks half-ghost,” whispered Orsini to Orgoglio as the Pope raised his hands high to bless Solo. 

“Indeed,” said Orgoglio uncomfortably. He had not wanted to return to Rome after going back to Pisa on pretense of setting his affairs in order, but Sisinnius had insisted, and he had had to defer to the Pope’s authority: now there was talk of war, and nobody knew what was true or false, only that Colonna’s men were being mustered, and Orsini’s, too. Orgoglio had only a small army of a hundred with a cavalry of twenty men, but they had been sent for as well, and he had no choice but to obey. They had no captain-general of the papal armies as of yet, but it seemed doubtless that Colonna or Orsini would be chosen, though neither had experience in war as of late— it was their men making up the armies, so they would be expected to command them.

“We wish to issue a papal bull,” proclaimed Sisinnuis, waving a white-gloved hand. A bishop brought the paper, bowing, and the Pope took it, unfolding it, and reading it aloud. “Sisinnius Sextus, Bishop, Servant of the Servants of God. In the name of God. It is our most holy will and purpose that all the lands, properties, and such monies as can be found belonging to Lady Leah d’Organa of Rome and France, an enemy of Christendom, be bestowed immediately upon our own Cardinal Beniamino Solo.”

A gasp and murmur went up from the Cardinals assembled: it was not, perhaps, wholly unexpected, but it was a bold move indeed. Solo did not move a single inch where he stood, his back turned to the Apostolic Court. 

The Pope was not finished. “We also hereby excommunicate the Lady d’Organa and all her companions, friends, peoples, and armies such as she possesses from the bosom and fellowship of our Holy Mother Church: they shall not be given Mass, they shall not receive Communion, nor any other holy sacrament, and any priest found to administer such to them will be likewise excommunicated.”

Silence fell on the room. Solo did not blink, only stood there until the Pope set the bull aside and stretched out his hand: something crimson gleamed there like a drop of blood. “We wish that you would once more receive this Cardinal’s ring, as a token of our good will towards you, and our forgiveness,” he said softly.

“I receive it in all joy,” said Solo in the most joyless voice Orgoglio had ever heard. Sisinnius seemed to take no note, and slid it onto the first finger of his right hand. Solo’s face twitched as if stung by something— then the movement ceased, and he was calm once more. 

* * *

The winter landscape of Florence was brisk and inviting, and Renata had taken to long walks in the fields, enjoying the winter in the countryside. Cadella accompanied her often, and they had many interesting talks: Renata discovered that Cadella had been a servant in the d’Organa home since the lady’s brother, Luca, had gone off and died in the wars in the north: she found that the lady’s husband Giovanni Solo had sailed away to find a better sea-way to Africa four years ago and never returned, to everyone’s grief; that by now surely they had all left the Palazzo Organa and gone elsewhere to plan the siege of Rome that was sure to take place.

“But how can you know all this?” asked Renata one day, amused by her companion’s great recall and knowledge of strategy.

“I saw the map well enough,” Cadella had said, “and I know what all the little flags mean, and the ladies were ever helpful to show me where Rome was, though I cannot—” and she had shut her mouth, crimson staining her cheeks.

“Cannot what?” asked Renata, and that was how she discovered that Cadella, though possessed of a mind sharp and keen, could not read a single word: she knew the letter C well enough, for that was her own name’s first letter, and the O for d’Organa, and R for Rome, but how they combined on paper was a mystery to her. 

That was how Renata began to trap her in her chamber, earnestly teaching her to read and to write at least her own name. Cadella was a quick learner, once she got over her embarrassment, and at last one fine morning in late January she wrote out in careful, childish letters with a lead stick on bad-quality paper:  _ Cadella Conniente _ . 

“There,” said Rey proudly, beaming at her. Cadella only stared at the letters in delight, and bent down, spelling out the name with a finger: _C-a-d-e-l-l-a_. 

“Cadella,” she said, mystified. “I have never written my name so before, Rei.”

“And now you have! Will the lady d’ Organa not be delighted? You can write her a letter and tell her all about it.” Rei embraced her friend about the shoulders as Bambina came in, carrying a stack of bed-linens and a tray of goat-cheese and bread. “Bibi! Cadella has just written her name!”

“Has she! Very good: she can help me make lists of things to get at market, and go on practicing such a useful skill.” Bibi put the linens into the closet and put the tray on the table. “Ah! Rei, my lady, you have not asked me for linens for your courses this month.”

Renata frowned absently, looking at the paper: did  _ Conniente _ have one N or two? “I have not needed it this month yet.”

“Nor last month,” said Bibi pointedly. “Nor since early November, lady: in truth, I believe it has been nigh four months.”

Renata’s mind ground to a sudden halt. She felt as if she had been riding a horse that had tried to stop, full gallop, on gravel, and gone skidding, while she clung to anything she could for help. She had refused to even consider, and tried to forget after missing the first, but... “I—is it not true that undue grievance of the heart may cause a halt in courses?” she asked Bibi. Something in the room smelled rank and was turning her stomach.

Cadella was looking from Bibi to Rei with her big round eyes. “It is so,” she said quickly. “Or I have heard it, anyway: a halting of courses can be treated with rest and quiet. We ought not to speak of the wars, then.”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” said Rei quickly, though her heart was beating madly. “I am only worried about the war, and it is causing some— some infirmity.” What  _ was _ that terrible smell?

“It is said if such a ceasing of courses occurs past three months, one must seek out a midwife to see what the matter is, and if anything can be done,” said Cadella. “Bibi, perhaps you ought to find a midwife in Florence.”

“I do not need a midw—” Renata gagged, her throat convulsing. “The  _ cheese _ ,” she choked, and fled to the window, vomiting out into the flower-beds below and praying that nobody was walking there. “Oh, God in Heaven,” she panted, wiping her mouth as Bibi rushed to her aid, “that cheese has gone bad: I beg you to take it out.”

Cadella leaned over and sniffed the tray cautiously. “There is naught amiss with the cheese, Rei,” she said. “It smells fresh.”

“It is  _ not _ fresh, it has made me ill, and this is not the first time I have felt so,” insisted Rei, turning from the window. “Look—” She bent to smell it, expecting to be ill again, but there was only the clean, fresh smell of goat’s cheese. “I…” She turned, bewildered, to the other women. “I do not understand.”

“I do,” said Bibi heavily. “I will go this moment and find a midwife in Prato: it is smaller, and there will be less gossip. Cadella, you must play the part of the fine lady guest, and Rei must play at being the maid.”

When she had gone, Renata sat down on her bed, her hands trembling. There was only one reason that she might feel ill so strangely, or that her courses might be missed, but she would not think of it: she could not consider it.  _ A war is coming _ .  _ It will be nothing. I will only be ill, I will only be tired. _

Cadella sat beside her. “Rei,” she said very gently, “can you say for certain, beyond doubt, that you might not be… with child?”

Her eyes swam with tears. “No,” she whispered, defeated. “I cannot say that for certain.” She had noticed some strange symptoms: her belly had swelled, but she had thought it to be only caused by some bad food, perhaps, and ignored it, for it was easily hidden beneath her gowns— and her breasts were tender, but were they not always so before courses? 

“It might be nothing,” said Cadella, trying to be very bright. “After all— perhaps it is a tumor of the womb, or— or cancer of the belly, or an imbalance of humors, or—”

“If you mean to be comforting, you are not doing an excellent job,” said Rei quickly, though she had to smile a little. “Cancer and humors, indeed.”

“It will not be so bad if you are with child, anyway,” Cadella reassured her. “So many noble ladies and men have natural children that one can hardly throw a stick without striking them these days.”

_ But I am the princess of Rome, _ thought Renata in despair.  _ I was meant to be wed, and bear a great man's children: I was meant to be pure and holy... _ She looked at the floor, trying to collect her thoughts.  _ Pure. And yet… I am not pure. I was meant… but that was all Grandfather’s doing, all Grandfather’s desire. Not my desire— yet to follow my own desire is a sin. And what do I desire?  _ She did not know.

* * *

“I suppose you have all seen this,” said Lady d’Organa dryly, putting the papal bull on the broad table in Lady Falena’s  _ palazzo  _ before all her allies. Jannah, in a fine dark velvet gown, inched closer to look with interest. “It was nailed to the door of the Palazzo Organa. I am to be stripped of anything the Pope can get his claws on, and it is to be given to my son, who, no doubt, will be forced to use it to Sisinnius’s purposes.”

“It is thievery, plain and simple,” said Lady Falena, outraged. “By what rights is this done?”

“None, none but his right as Pope, and the fact he knows we cannot stand against him yet. Thank God the fleet from Naples has been sighted and is nearly at the mouth of the Tiber.” Lady d’Organa tossed the bull aside. “It will be a matter of time, Falena, before he suspects you of harboring me.”

“We are far from the See,” said Lady Falena, “and I have men-at-arms to protect my house. Let him come. Our next move will be siege from the North by the Venetian armies and cavalry, when they come. We will need thousands of men. I move to surround only the Vatican: there are innocents in the city who do not need to be killed in this fight.”

“Surrounding only the Vatican would leave us open to attack from behind: we ought to tighten the noose instead, drawing further in until we trap him. The Tiber will serve as our life-blood: we can bring our Neapolitan ships up and deliver foodstuffs to our armies outside the walls.”

Jannah pointed to the map. “Here is where the walls are thinnest: we might knock them down with cannon or ram.”

“I pray it will not come to that,” said Lady d’Organa. “Such an old place, with such history. It ought to be preserved, not broken, even for all the ugliness it holds. Very well. Once the ships come up the Tiber, we will lay siege: a week or more, and we will be at war openly.”

* * *

“We wish to designate a leader of our armies, who will lead Rome to victory,” proclaimed the Pope, stalking down the center aisle of the Sala Regia as he spoke to the Apostolic Court. The Cardinals all looked at each other, exchanging small gestures: each had tithed enough to the Treasury to raise a small army themselves by now, and each expected some measure of thanks.  _ Will it be me _ ? That was the question on each man’s face: old, young, middle-aged— bearded, fresh-faced: all men, save one.

“Cardinal Solo,” said the Pope in low, final tones. 

Solo stepped forth, crimson silk and wool sweeping the ground like a river of blood. He bowed from the waist stiffly. “Yes, Holiness,” he said.

“It would be our pleasure to lift from your shoulders the burden of your holy vows and make you Captain-General of the Papal Armies,” said Sisinnius Sextus, voice as warm and kind as the sun. A gasp and mutter went up, but the Pope stopped them all with a hand. “Cardinal Solo has graciously given us lands, and properties, and monies which belonged to his heretic, treasonous mother,” he said, “and asked for naught in return, as a good Christian ought. We know all of you here wish to buy your way into our graces, but it cannot be bought! It can only be earned. Cardinal. Kneel.”

Solo did so, his eyes staring straight ahead as if he could see nothing but an empty room as the Pope lifted his  _ zucchetta _ from his dark hair. “I hereby beg humble leave, Holy Father, to resign my cardinalate,” he murmured.

“We grant it,” said di Palatine, and blessed him with the sign of the Cross. “Go and find something else to wear: put away that red. You will command armies for us, and at your side will be our loyal Orsini, and our captains: you will be well looked after indeed, so you must look after yourself.” He gave Solo a crooked, old smile, and Solo only looked up without any emotion and bowed his head. 

“I will do so, Your Holiness: I thank you.” He made to take the ring, recently replaced, off his finger, but the Pope stopped him with a look.

“Keep it,” he said softly, so softly that only Solo could hear, “as a reminder of who you serve, my son.”

* * *

The midwife was a rotund little woman whose speech was nigh incomprehensible, and whose name, as close as any of them could make it, was  _ Arredudidu,  _ though none of the women was sure on either the spelling or the pronunciation: her accent was very muddled, and they settled for calling her  _ Arre.  _ Only Bibi seemed to understand her at all.

She seemed to understand her business perfectly without being spoken to, however, and nodded, waving her hand in dismissal when Bibi explained the problem at hand, gesturing at Rei, who sat demurely dressed in Cadella’s worn old clothes in a chair, hands clasped as Cadella stood imperiously in the corner, arms crossed, wearing Rei’s borrowed yellow silk gown and looking very impatient. Arre marched over, guided Rei gently to the bed, and laid her out flat before pressing lightly on her belly and hips, listening to her belly with an ear pressed to her skirts, and muttering to herself. The woman’s hands were careful and brisk, and Renata caught her lip between her teeth as her legs were carefully guided apart and up, bent at the knees: yes, here was a familiar sensation. A pair of fingers pressed into her body lightly, and withdrew: Arre seemed to be testing the moisture there for something.

With a quick whirl of skirts, she turned to Bibi and cupped her hands in front of her ample belly, curving out in an unmistakable gesture. Rei felt tears prick her eyes, slipping down her cheeks. 

Bibi nodded as another sting of syllables rippled out of Arre, and turned to Rei. “She wishes to know when the time of conceiving was.”

Renata blinked the tears away. So there was no question, then. “Ah— late November,” she managed to say. 

“Are you very sure?” Bibi asked, looking sideways at the insistent midwife. “She says, is there no possible earlier date?”

“Earlier? No.” Renata sat up on her elbows, frowning. “Why?”

“She says you are too big to be only three months gone. No, this is her first,” Bibi said aside to Arre, who frowned. “Often a woman will not show until four or five months with a first child, but she says you could be mistaken for near to five months already.”

Renata looked down at her belly, a gentle, unmistakable curve beneath her woolen maid’s gamurra. It had been so well hidden for weeks under the heavy gowns: she had hardly had cause to think about it…  _ I think I knew all along I was with child. Deep down, I knew: I did not want to know, but now I must face it, since there can be no denying it.  _ “Is that bad? Am I ill?”

“No,” Bibi said for Arre, who was shaking her head. “No, she thinks... you may be carrying twins, Rei.” 

Cadella started in shock in the corner, but Rei did not hear her. Twins! Twins? It could not be. Her hands began to tremble. “Twins?” she choked, stunned. Two babies?  _ Two?  _ Her only experience with children had been sometimes playing with the young ones brought to court, and they had never stayed very long. How could she possibly care for two infants? What would— and there Renata thought of Lady d’Organa, resigned to never having heirs, since her son had taken vows.  _ She will be a grandmother, _ she thought with a sudden shock like lightning,  _ and they will call her Nonna; she will not care that they are bastards.  _

“Yes,” said Bibi, oblivious to Renata’s inner thoughts, “twins: she says you may have a difficult birth, but as long as you pray every day and eat well and rest there is no reason why they should not both be healthy. Like Jacob and Esau of old, she says.”

“Then let us pray one does not come out clutching the other’s heel,” said Renata, trying to smile. “Thank you, Arre: you have helped this poor maid in her tribulations.”

Arre nodded and patted her hand, and then the midwife had gone, Bibi seeing her to the door. Onc she was gone, Cadella whirled on Rei, eyes wet. “Twins!” she cried, clapping a hand to her mouth. “Oh, God: whatever will we do?”

Renata got up. “We must hide it. If Detto is— should he suspect, he might think me a woman of ill morals, and have me removed from the house: we have nowhere else to go.” She pressed her hand to her belly. “Is there a way we might conceal it?”

“We might let your gowns out and re-cut some, but past a certain time… there will be no hiding a belly gone some months with twins,” said Cadella, eyeing her waistline. “We will have to go back and seek out somewhere for you to give birth: perhaps a convent? We can say you are some wealthy lady whose husband has died, and they will take you in.”

“A convent. Yes.” Renata rubbed her eyes. “Then we will remain here as long as it is safe. God Almighty, I have been a fool: what a time for babies, in the midst of a war!”

* * *

Eremo dal Prato walked the streets of his home city. After so long searching for the lost  _ principessa, _ he had decided that a visit back to Prato would be in order, for a moment’s peace: he had spent months turning over every stone from Genoa to Rome, and had not found a trace of the girl. One man had said he had seen a noble lady traveling with all haste to the sea, and dal Prato had followed the tale: it was a sixty-year-old woman who was going to visit her daughter. Another had said he had seen a young woman fitting Renata di Palatine’s description with a stable-boy in Arezzo, but it had been some half-wit farmer’s daughter. He had spent so much of the Duca di Fumoso’s money… but the Duca did not seem to care how much was spent in the pursuing of his prize.  _ Find that girl and bring her to me in Rome, _ he had commanded,  _ whatever it takes _ , and La Fantasma had afforded him all the horses and traveling-things he could have wanted. The gold in his purse was heavy on his thigh: he needed only to show a ducat, and he received whatever he desired. 

Truly, the love of money was the root of all evil, but dal Prato did not love money, only the things that came with having a good deal of it. He had indulged in buying a supple new pair of boots, a proper cassock, finer undergarments, and had not shaved his tonsure in months: he thought his figure much improved by the changes.  _ When this is over, _ he thought,  _ I will buy an estate in Tuscany and have a vineyard, and wear velvet and silks every day.  _

As he stepped past the shade of a baker’s booth, intending to buy something to eat, his eye fell upon two women. Both were plump, and they were speaking quietly, which drew his attention. He bought a roll and began to eat it, stepping back to listen out of sight. 

“Take it,” one was saying, “for you have done a great service.”

She was answered by the most barbaric tongue dal Prato had ever heard: surely it was some Frankish language. He tried to make out the words, but it was beyond him.

“No,” said the first woman, “we may call you again: the maid’s worry might be eased, were she reassured by such a midwife as time goes on.”

A midwife! So some maid had fallen with child. That was interesting. Dal Prato took another bite of bread, chewing slowly as the midwife with the abominable grasp of Italian spoke again. 

“And with you,” said the first woman again. “Poor little Rei will be glad of you. Take the coin and go in peace.”

Rei. Some maid called Rei. Dal Prato considered this as he finished his food and watched the women depart from each other. There would be no questioning the midwife… but he might be able to discern something from that coin she carried. He felt for his knife and left his place, following the woman down the road at a distance.

A few minutes later, he had caught her in an alley. “Sister,” he called, hood drawn down, affecting the most pious manner he could, “let me say a prayer for you.” She turned, giving him a surprised look, and said something he did not understand. Dal Prato flashed the knife and held his hand out as he pinned her to the wall. “Your money,” he snapped, “your purse: give it here.”

The woman quickly shoved her purse into his hand, babbling in fear, and he shoved her away: there was no need to kill her, as nobody would be able to understand her, should she try to tell others of the incident, and nobody knew who he was anyway. She ran. Dal Prato emptied the purse into his hand: there were some twists of red thread, crumpled leaves, a few copper coins of small value… and a bright, shining silver scudo, newly minted, with Pope Sisinnius’s face in profile struck on one side and a wreath on the other surrounding the words SISINNIUS SEXTUS. So, this coin had come from Rome very recently: that was also interesting. Dal Prato turned it over in his palm, musing. A coin from Rome here in Prato, given to a midwife by a maid in payment for her work for another maid, a maid called Rei: someone was lying, and that would not stand. Rei. Was Rei not a shortened form of some longer name? Reina? Regina?  _ Renata? _

His blood suddenly ran high. It was possible… of course, she would use artifice to disguise herself, knowing that the Pope would be seeking a princess and not a gutter rat maid: but if she was truly carrying a child, then the Pope would be justified in beating her for whoredom, as he had heard— why, he might find her, drag her back to Rome, and be commended by the Pope himself, not only the Duca di Fumoso! Wild fantasies bloomed in dal Prato’s mind: himself casting the soiled and ruined  _ principessa _ at the feet of Saint Peter’s throne, the Pope welcoming him and saying  _ well done, our son _ : the rumors of war would be at an end, he would be made a Cardinal of the College and wear a ring, and be elevated to a position even higher than Solo. 

His hands trembled with excitement as he looked about: he ought to have caught the other maid and beaten the whereabouts of the  _ principessa _ out of her, but he could wait. He had waited so long, what was another week? Someone had to come into the village, and what had the other woman said? They would call for the midwife again soon. Then he would lay in wait, and watch, and follow in silence. Dal Prato crossed himself and fell to his knees, thanking God silently for such grace and wisdom as He had bestowed upon His humble servant Eremo dal Prato. Yes, he could wait: patience was a virtue, and he was a very patient man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1) pregnancy!!! this WILL be an ongoing subject in this story and I may not be able to take the time to dissect every little mention so if it's not for you I will at LEAST be doing summaries of all upcoming chapters to the best of my ability so people who are triggered by it can avoid details. This chapter has mention of pregnancy and pregnancy of a main character, a physical examination to conform a pregnancy, pregnancy spoken about after the sentence "Renata's mind ground to a sudden halt". The next two sections do not contain pregnancy but it starts up again at the third line down with "The midwife was a rotund little woman" and goes on to the end of the chapter. 2) Vomiting: pregnancy typical, takes place one time with mention of it having happened before starting with the line "perhaps you ought to find a midwife in Florence". 
> 
> CHAPTER SUMMARY: It has been almost four months since the events of the previous chapter. Solo returns to the Apostolic Court in a great shroud of secrecy as to what's happened to him while the Pope pretends to welcome him back to the fold as a proper Cardinal once more. He wears scarlet. His spirit's been almost entirely crushed. The Pope proclaims that d'Organa and all her compatriots are to be excommunicated and that her money and property are to be given to Solo. In Florence, Renata teaches Cadella to read and comes to terms with the fact that she is pregnant. A midwife called Arredudidu is sent for from nearby Prato. Lady d'Organa and Lady Falena decide that the Vatican will be besieged by Venice from the north and the fleet from Naples will head up the Tiber to lock it in from the south as soon as they arrive, in a week or more. Jannah points out that the Vatican walls are thin in places and could be knocked down at a last resort: Lady d'Organa would still rather see the See preserved. The Pope names Solo Captain-General of the Papal Armies and strips him of his Cardinalate, but makes Solo keep his Cardinal's ring as a reminder of who he serves. Renata discovers she is pregnant with twins, and plans are made in secret to hide her pregnancy. In Prato, Eremo dal Prato walks around after a fruitless search for the missing granddaughter of the Pope, and overhears a conversation between Bibi and the midwife. He mugs the midwife and steals the coin Bibi gave her for payment, and realizes it's a Roman coin newly minted with the Pope's likeness, then puts two and two together and realizes Renata must be hiding somewhere nearby. Dal Prato considers that he will be raised to a great station if he can find the princess and bring her back to Rome...


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some kinda graphic threats against a pregnant woman, sexist language, and A MURDER 👀

**MARCH, 1493**

**FLORENCE**

Rei groaned at the pressure bearing down on her ribs. “That is too tight, Cadella,” she forced out, teeth gritting.

“I am sorry, lady,” answered Cadella, struggling with the laces. “The back will not close.”

Renata groaned. They had already let out all her gowns in the bodice twice over, as the last few weeks had brought a surprising array of changes to her body, including her breasts suddenly growing, nearly overnight, to a pair of nuisances that seemed the size of cantaloupes. “Help me take it off, then: we will find another.” Her belly had also seemed to lift and push out in the past week startlingly quickly, high and round, so that anything but the loosest of gowns showed the curve at the top, disturbing the pleats at the high waist. _If this keeps on,_ she thought despairingly as Cadella helped her out of the gown, _I shall be forced to drape myself in a bed-curtain for clothing._

Fortunately, Detto had not noticed a thing. Renata was beginning to wonder if he was, perhaps, a little nearsighted: he never said a word about her changing figure, and greeted her politely every morning at breakfast and every evening at dinner. Bibi had already begun to make plans for the journey to an abbey nearby: the trick was finding an excuse to depart, and also ensuring they did not wait too long, that the road would not be too difficult on Renata’s condition.

“Here,” said Cadella, holding up a plainer, brown velvet gown. “It is one of the Duchessa’s: Detto said I could alter it for you.”

“I have worn her gowns before. The Duchessa Stretta is clearly as thin as a blade of grass: what is there more to let out in them?” Renata snapped peevishly. Cadella looked hurt, and Rei sighed: it was not her fault that there was only so much one might do with gowns. “I am sorry for that, Della. Were there not some bolts of fabric in the store-room?”

The girl brightened. “Yes: I could make you a new one, or— or put in a panel: it would take a shorter time.”

“That dark brown one there, with the heavy pleats. Have we tried that one yet?” Renata pointed.

“Yes, as I recall, it was too small in the breast.”

“Oh, the gowns can go hang,” said Renata, tears prickling her eyes in spite of herself. “I am sorry, Cadella: you have tried your best, but I feel like a great cow being hid with a canvas.”

Cadella shook her head. “You are not a cow, lady. We will find something, something better than canvas.”

“Yes: perhaps the Duchessa had a very rich, fat old aunt, who visited often, and her clothing was left,” said Renata, smiling in spite of her mood. “What will we do when my lying-in approaches? I ought to go into Prato and pray by the relic of the girdle: maybe the Holy Virgin will grant me some wisdom in this matter. Lord, but my back aches.”

“We shall do it, then, if it cheers your heart. Lie down, then,” said Cadella. “I will look through every room and come back as soon as I can.”

Renata lay on her side in her chemise, her hand resting on her belly. It was truly nothing but a great irritant: she could not wear her favorite clothing nor lie on her belly nor on her back, she felt ill half the time, her body ached, her breasts were sore, and it still did not feel truly as though she was carrying children— or even a child. She only felt as if her body was no longer hers; the changes some awful punishment for her wickedness. What would the Cardinal have thought? Would he have shunned her at court, had she remained? _Most like,_ she thought miserably. She had heard of cardinals' mistresses being sent from court once they had begun to show: nobody liked seeing a constant reminder of sin in the Holy See. 

Cadella came back in, interrupting her thoughts. “I found one!” she said, excitement rising in her voice. “It is big enough: I know not whose it was, but Detto said I could take it if I pleased. Look: the waist is wide enough to hide you, and so is the bosom: it is such a lovely color, too. That deep blue: it will make your eyes look golden.”

“Oh,” said Renata, feeling much more cheerful and sitting up, “it _is_ lovely! Yes, help me into it, and we will see where it needs altering. You truly are remarkable, Cadella: what I would do if I had you not, I do not know.”

* * *

**ROME**

Rome was under siege. The fleet from Naples had blocked the Tiber weeks ago, and the armies of the allies of Lady d’Organa had encompassed half the city, blocking the gates and penetrating in, toward the Vatican in an inexorable crawl that gained day by day. The people of Rome had fled the streets, sequestered in their houses: many had taken up makeshift arms and joined the attacking forces, furious at the sins of the Pope. 

Duchessa Stretta stalked the deck of the largest Neapolitan ship: the _Santa Caterina_ was outfitted with cannon broadside, and from her position on the river, she could see the walls of the Vatican and the dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica. _What a waste,_ she thought, glancing down again at her map, the girl Jannah at her side. _Wealth, power, and glory: all for nothing._

“These walls have holes through which stones or oil may be dropped on the heads of enemies,” said Jannah, tapping the line that marked the northwestern Leonine walls. “They are old, and have not been strengthened in some time. The southern walls by the river are stronger, but have no drop-holes, though the Vatican Guard will be prepared to attack.”

“The armies will stay near the river, then,” said Duchessa Stretta. She had come to like the girl very much: she was quick on her feet and sharp-witted. “Lady d’Organa is in the thick of that group there by the south wall: can you see it?”

“Under the grey and white banner? Yes.” Jannah screened her eyes with her hand, peering out over the glittering-bright water of the green Tiber. “I see smoke, too: they have made campfires.”

“Good. Get you to the shore: I shall send you in a boat with some men. Go to the lady and tell her that they must keep away from the northern walls. I do not know where the Pope is hiding his armies, but we must remain alert.”

Jannah nodded and turned to get into the smaller boat, guarded by sailors. She was used by now to being a messenger between both great ladies, and was growing ever more used to the idea of being a valuable person in this war: why, here she was guarded by men as if she was a princess herself! 

The coming ashore was simple: she trod up the stones of the riverside and through the tall grasses, then up to the road, where she made her way, flanked by more armed men, to the encampment near the great walls that enclosed the Vatican. They knew that the guards had no archers, due to her own information, so all that the men atop the parapets could do was stare down helplessly, unable to part with spear or pike for throwing.

“Lady d’Organa,” she said politely as she came upon the woman, inspecting her men’s arms and mail personally: many of them only had boiled leather, but a strong will could beat down steel mail. “I bring word from the Duchessa: do not venture to the north walls. They are fragile and old, and breachable, but there are drop-holes in the parapets.”

“I see,” said the lady, turning and looking at her. “They hold the Tiber still?”

“As fast as iron. Any word of the Venetians, or of Signore Schiocco?”

“Di Damerone is nearly here with them all. Once he arrives we will write a letter offering peaceful terms: the Pope will not accept it, most like, and then we will invade the See and drive him out.” Lady d’Organa sighed. “Alas, that the day should come to this. When I had thought to myself that I should cast down di Palatine, I thought I might do so by political intrigue, bringing a Cardinal down from on high— not riding to war on Rome herself and deposing a tyrant Pope.”

“They do say God works in wondrous ways,” said Jannah. “How soon will di Damerone arrive?”

“Three days, more or less: I should have liked to meet on a field of battle, not shouting up at stone walls.”

Jannah gnawed on her lip: something else had been worrying at her for some time. “It is said that the Pope excommunicated you and… and thereby damned you to Hell: does this concern you?” 

Lady d’Organa laughed. “No, child. What a false tyrant says is no concern of mine: my soul’s fate is between myself and God. Have they something like excommunication, in the Moorish faith?”

“Not so much,” answered Jannah. “There is _takfir,_ but some scholars say that one might declare himself an unbeliever, some say it is the perview of God only, and some think anyone who commits a grave sin ceases to be a Muslim at all.”

“And what do you think?” asked Lady d’Organa, motioning for her to follow along as she moved down the camp.

“I think— I think it is God’s judgment only,” said Jannah, “for how can men know the true state of faith of any other man?”

“Wisely said,” said Lady d’Organa, gazing up at the walls. “My son is in there somewhere, and I am sure I know that the state of his soul is truly known by God alone.”

* * *

“There! What think you?” Cadella stepped back, smiling, and Renata turned in front of the mirror, admiring the gown: the deep blue velvet gamurra was offset by a gold-brocade giornea, made quickly by Cadella’s talented hands, that draped over the full gown and hid her belly so well that Renata could hardly believe herself to be with child at all. 

“Oh, it is perfect! You must wear one of my old ones: then everyone shall think us sisters.” She seized the girl’s hands in delight. “Get dressed, and I shall meet you in the hall!”

While Cadella got her clothing changed, Renata made her careful way down the stairs, holding the gamurra with one hand. There was another advantage: the thick drape would conceal her shape even better. It was a three hours’ walk to Prato, but they could take a coach: neither riding nor extensive walking were supposed to be healthy for women expecting children. _I had not known all the things I would not be able to do once with child,_ she thought bitterly. Bibi was like as not full of old wives’ tales, but for all Renata knew, walking barefoot in winter _would_ make her go into labor early, so it was better to be safe than sorry. 

Cadella joined her presently, dressed in a yellow silk gown and white chemise, and they made their way down to the yard, asking for the coach. “Detto has told us of the cathedral at Prato,” explained Cadella brightly to the coachman, “so we should like to see it, and besides, there is nothing else to do today.”

“Yes, _signorina_ , I will take you there: come along,” said the old man gruffly, and after that the horse had to be harnessed on, and the coach had to be aired out, and they waited and waited until he opened the door for them. Renata’s feet already ached as she climbed up from all the standing: she hoped there were places to sit in the cathedral there.

* * *

Beniamino Solo stood before his looking-glass as the sun rose without seeing the image reflected in it. All the changes in his appearance had been by order of the Pope: he did not care about them one way or the other. Cassock exchanged for breeches and a doublet, steel armor and a gorget, a breastplate and boots for riding: what did it matter? He had no cardinalate, no vows, no family: no one to love, nothing to live for. There was only enduring, and the faint spark of hope he guarded intensely within his breast and did not think about during the day: the hope that he might see Renata di Palatine with his own two eyes again before the end of his no doubt short and miserable life, and fulfill the vow he had made to her. 

_I will bring justice to those who have harmed you._

It seemed a vow made by another man, a man who had purpose, who had a will, who was anything more than a tool in the hand of the Devil. To him now, it was almost meaningless. _Put a spear into my hand, thrust me into the front of the line. Do anything to me: only do not fling me again into those dungeons._ He still could not bear to be near any open flame: the terror it brought his soul was too great, the burns in his flesh still twisted, shining and pink, prickling at night when he tried to sleep in the dark. His left leg still gave him trouble: the hip had been dislocated and set back in badly, and walking was difficult on the best days.

He did not know what had become of Rosa: she had disappeared and nobody seemed to know or care where she might be. Pinno had remained, but Solo tried his best to look over the man’s head, to not notice him, for if he took notice, the Pope might see, and he would be forced to expose him, crying _traitor_ to the Pope, and then Pinno, good, brave Pinno, would be killed. Even the Duca di Fumoso, who had returned to court, could no longer strike terror or hatred into his heart, not even when he fell into whispers with the Pope. He could not even bring himself to care about the fact that the Lady d’Organa had been excommunicated, and was sure to perish in the war once the fighting began. _She knows I was used to strip her of her money and wealth and lands,_ he thought dismally. _She has likely disowned me as her son: I am loathed by all in Rome, and rightfully so._ He could only pray that she would find a swift and peaceful end, and that her soul would rest in Heaven among the angels, despite the words of the Pope...

He had been dreaming this past night, before he had woken when it was still dark: he allowed his thoughts now to go to his dreams. It was an indulgence he allowed himself only rarely, to remember such dreams in the daylight, and only when he was alone: who knew who might see his face, and suspect treason?

Renata di Palatine had knelt before him at Mass, her face upturned, her palms pressed together in prayer. He had been a Cardinal again, and about to give her Holy Communion: he had blessed her, he had taken the wafer in his fingers and pressed it to her tongue, her mouth open to receive it. Her mouth had been smooth and wet, and his thumb had lingered there as the wafer crumbled, her great soft eyes fixed on his. 

_Someone will see,_ he had thought in a dream-panic, _someone will tell the Pope…_ but the cathedral’s pews were full of shadowy figures he could not make out. _As in a mirror, darkly,_ a voice from behind him had whispered _._ Renata’s had been the only clear form, kneeling before him, his thumb on her soft, hot tongue. He had felt his body rouse to her, had cupped her chin in his fingers and gazed down into her eyes. She had been naked, then, naked and kneeling in the great cathedral, and he had not been able to tear his sight away from her form as she closed her eyes, her lips closing round his thumb. 

_Get up,_ he had begged her, in a paroxysm of terror. _Get up, child; he will see._

 _Let them all see,_ she had answered, opening her eyes again and reaching for him. _My Beniamino…_

And the dream had changed: he was taking her on the altar, her thighs around his waist, and cared not who might see— in fact, wished that all might see him take her as he plunged into her waiting, soft flesh and kissed her mouth: _there is no more deceit, only truth, and the truth is that I am a sinner, a sinner, a sinner..._

He had woken on the floor on his belly,his aching flesh as hard as iron and trapped between his belly and the floor, like to bruise, and had wrenched himself to his back and felt the wet stickiness spread along his skin from navel to thigh, and a trembling hand between shirt and flesh confirmed that he had spilled in his sleep, tempted by his own sinful mind, so he had washed, dressed, and spent the next five hours praying silently at the mirror, staring into nothing.

_I must pray for deliverance from these dreams. If the Pope suspects I touched her, I will be killed._

His door opened, and Solo fought to not cry out in terror as he turned. “Captain-General,” said a guard, bowing. “The troops are in the innermost court: they await your review.”

Troops, troops: he was to play the part of being a general at arms, and he knew if he failed to inspect the men properly, he would be thrown back into the darkness, where the torches were. He shuddered. “Yes,” he said, trying to rouse himself to any emotion at all, “thank you,” and he strode out, spurs clicking, trying not to limp though it brought his leg and hip pain, to review the Papal Armies of the Holy Father.

* * *

Renata and Cadella left the carriage in the square outside Prato Cathedral and made their way to the great building, imposing and striped white and black with the alternating colors of marble making up the walls. Many others were there, milling about, and even more were inside the cathedral, admiring the works of art in the building and the sculpture. Renata looked with an appreciative eye at the fine frescoes as she made her way down the aisles, Cadella following. The green and white walls made her feel as though she was in some great forest, and the paintings of Saint John and Saint Stephen were beautiful to look at. 

“I heard a priest say the girdle is only shown four times a year,” whispered Renata to Cadella. “A shame it is not yet Easter.”

Cadella smiled. “We still might go and pray before it, if you like. Look, beneath that arch—” and she pointed. There was a small crowd of women clustered about the arch, kneeling before the little altar in the chapel set there, and Renata made her way to the group, sitting as carefully as she could on the nearest seat. Her ankles ached, and she had to find a privy chamber sooner than later, but it was peaceful here in the chapel, and the air was cool.

The smell of incense burning grew stronger as they got closer to the altar, and at last the rest of the ladies had gone, and Renata knelt before it alone, making the sign of the Cross and pressing her hands together. She said an _Ave_ as quickly as possible, Cadella kneeling at her side, and then muttered a softer prayer, one meant for the Virgin’s ears alone. “O Mary, holy Mother of God,” she whispered, trying desperately to feel some spiritual guidance, “I know you give aid to those who ask, even— even sinners, like me. I beg you, therefore, to help me in my tribulations, and help me bear these, my natural children within me, and— and I do pray also that I will not die in childbirth.” She wiped a sudden tear from her cheek and hastily returned to prayer. The chapel was very quiet. “So if it be the will of God, may I live, and my children live to— to meet their father, one day, though he is far away. He does not know of them, you see, and— and though he might not have loved me, perhaps he would love them.” 

Beside her, Cadella wrapped her arms around her shoulder in a tight embrace of support. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she echoed, “may you give us all strength in the days to come: my dear Renata is not only my lady, but my friend, and to lose her so soon to Heaven would be only grief to us all.”

 _“In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti,”_ whispered Renata, and crossed herself again, rising unsteadily as Cadella guided her.

They did not see the shadow sliding toward them, nor the gleam of steel until it was too late. Cadella cried out, flung to the side by a man in a cassock. Renata stumbled against the altar, terror rising in her throat as she turned and saw his face. He bore a knife, and she could note only red hair and bulging green eyes before he hissed a prayer and the blade came down from above, plunging toward her heart.

She wrenched herself to the side, and the stroke that would have pierced her breast only sliced her arm. It was wickedly sharp, so sharp she hardly felt it as she righted herself. “Della!” she screamed, blood running hot down her sleeve. “Della, go and get help!”

Cadella had taken matters into her own hands, however: a great golden crucifix, snatched off the altar, smashed across the back of the man’s head. He stumbled, crying out, and whirled back on the maid, who shrank against the wall. Renata could not think. She had no weapon— wait! That was not true. Her fingers went beneath the golden giornea, clasping round—

“Rei, run!” screamed Cadella, swinging the crucifix wildly. The priest— or priest she thought him— easily evaded the blows, and snatched it from her hands, flinging it away. 

“I have no purpose where you are concerned, girl,” he said, and delivered such a blow to her head that she staggered, eyes unfocused: another one might kill her.

“Della, run!” Renata shouted. “Run, run for your life, run and get help!”

Cadella staggered and stumbled, out of the chapel, and the priest turned on Rei, knife gleaming. “You,” he said coldly. “No, there will be no running, not for a whore whose day of judgment has come.”

When had her body become so slow and ungainly, unbalanced? Renata held her hands down fast at her sides, in the great folds of cloth. “I am not running,” she said, as evenly as she could.

“No,” he said, and in one movement had snatched her by the hair, gripping tightly as he pressed the knife to her throat and pushed her up against the altar. He reeked of incense and of sweat. “You will come with me. I will take you back to the Vatican, and you will answer for your whoredoms and your sins before the Holy Father… or I will cut your bastards from you, and fling them into the Tiber.” The point of the blade slid down, down her bodice, her gown, and to her belly, the blade digging into the fabric. 

Sweat trickled down Renata’s back and breast in the heat and the terror, and… something _fluttered,_ something like bubbles or rippling water, or butterfly’s wings inside her belly, from side to side. _My children have quickened; they are alive,_ she suddenly realized, and it almost brought her to her knees: those tiny, flickering movements like candle flame were at once the center of her world, and she knew with absolute certainty she would die before she let anyone touch them. “You will do neither,” she said.

He laughed. “Oh, I will: perhaps I shall do both. Perhaps I will deliver you to his Holiness, and the Pope will force Cardinal Solo to cut them from you: ah! There is that look in your eyes. They are his filthy get, are they not? Good: even more reason for them to be extinguished— seed of traitors, of ungodliness, of rebellion and heresy—”

Renata’s hands, beneath the giornea, had clasped around the walnut and steel hilt of the dagger that Solo had given her on the night of her escape, that she had kept with her always, and she could hear his words again, as clearly as if he stood next to her: _drive the point between his ribs._ She had no choice: he brought the knife up again, up to her throat, and in one vicious movement, Renata stabbed him through the cassock, in the belly. 

“Oh,” he moaned in shock, dropping his own knife with a clatter, and grasping her hands, which closed around the hilt. “No, no, take it— _out_ , I beg you—”

She pulled it from him like a cleaver from meat. Blood rushed forth, flowing to the floor, and Renata drove the blade back in again, this time higher, between the ribs. It felt like cutting through so much meat. Her arm felt the shock of hitting bone, so she pulled it out and tried again once more, gasping in desperation, and hit soft flesh at last. The priest choked, blood welling from his mouth, and grasped for her with bloodstained hands. Blood sprayed across her clothing as he coughed, red foam flecking at the corners of his mouth, and as she wrenched the knife from his body again a fresh gout of it drenched her hands. So much blood: she had not known a body could hold so much, nor that it would smell of iron and be so hot.

There was a clang, a sound like rain as the man staggered back, dying, to fetch up against the frescoed wall of the chapel. Renata looked at the floor and saw coins: gold ducats, rolling along the floor in shining yellow arcs. She picked one up and saw that it was Genoan, bearing a likeness she knew at once. 

“Whence came you by these?” she demanded, terror gripping her by the throat. She advanced upon him, driving her knee into his belly and holding the blade to his throat. “I know you now: I have seen you before. You are the priest who aided Cardinal Solo in his own church, before he was called to Rome.”

“I am,” he gasped, eyes finding hers. He was deadly pale: his light red hair looked almost dark with sweat against the pallor of his skin.

“Who gave you coin from Genoa?” Rei almost shouted, desperate for an answer before he died: who wanted her dead? “Who gave it you? _Who?_ ”

His green eyes fluttered shut. “La Fantasma,” he croaked in his death-rattle, “the errand-woman… she gave it me… from the Duca… di… Fumoso…” Renata let go of him in horror, and he fell limp to the ground, his chest still rising and falling. 

She watched him die. It took a long time. She had not known it would be so long, but at last his chest stopped moving, and the blood ceased to flow from his body onto the marble floor, and she could breathe again. _I have spilled blood in a holy place,_ she thought in detached horror. _I must pray for forgiveness._

When Cadella came running in, accompanied by priests and the city watch, they found Renata sitting before the _Sacra Cintola_ , her eyes far away and her clothing drenched in blood as she prayed, a knife at her feet and the body of a dead priest on the floor, golden coins scattered like stones. “Up, my lady,” said Cadella, endeavoring to raise her to her feet as the priests cried out in horror and clustered around the body. “Up, I beg you, and away from this place: oh, God have mercy, your arm has been cut.”

“He threatened me,” said Rei, trembling as she rose. “Della… it was by command of the Duca di Fumoso. Look at his coin.”

“Di Fumoso?” asked Cadella, aghast. “But why would he want you dead?”

“I do not think he wanted to kill me. He said he would take me back to Rome, to deliver me to the Pope, but he s-said that the Pope would force Solo to cut my children from me.” Renata was shaking so badly she could hardly speak. 

“Rome? But the Duca—” Cadella went silent, thinking for a moment as she helped Renata away from the altar. “Rei, the Duca was going back to Genoa. Why would he pay a man to bring you to Rome?”

“He—” Renata looked up, shaken from her shock. “He must be in Rome. Della, do you think it possible that the Duca di Fumoso might be aiding the Pope in secret? The Pope would want you back... and the Duca has enough ships to break any siege of the Tiber— and men, enough armies to overwhelm the Lady d’Organa’s men.” She was still clutching the coins.

“Oh, Heaven help us,” said Cadella, gone white as milk. “We should write to them at once— 

“There is no time to write a letter: it will not reach Rome soon enough,” Rey said, her color coming back. “I must go to Rome at once.”

“You cannot go to Rome,” protested Cadella, still clinging to her arm as they left the church, hurrying to the waiting coach. “In your condition? In the midst of a war? That is madness.”

“Madness it may be, yet if my suspicions are correct and I do not go, the deaths of hundreds shall be upon my head!” Renata hauled herself into the coach and turned to Cadella, eyes ablaze. “If I stand idly by and do nothing, saying I am some— some weak woman with child who cannot be asked to lift a finger, then I sin as greatly as I ever have.”

“Then send me in your stead,” Cadella begged as the coach began to move. “I implore you, lady: you carry twins, and I am sound of body and can read enough now to understand a plainly written letter. Send me to Rome, but keep yourself here safe.”

Renata sighed, relenting. “Very well: but I entreat you to go as fast as the wind.” She sat back against the coach, her hands trembling as Cadella leaned out the window and bawled instructions at the coachman, and she folded her fingers atop the swell of her belly, trying to calm herself. The children were moving still within her, quick and living, and she drew a ragged breath, then frowned as a little foot— or hand, or head— pressed into her bladder, reminding her of the need to find a privy very soon, but the pressure released, and something moved from side to side under the gown. “Yes,” she whispered unthinking, pressing her hand to her belly. “It is all right, we are all of us safe at present.”

Her voice must have carried to her own womb, for the movement stilled, and she was given some peace. Cadella looked over. “They have quickened?” she asked, eyes bright with interest.

“Yes, I felt it this day for the first time.” Renata looked out the window, wishing they would go faster as the coach left the borders of Prato. The knife was still at her side: she did not remember picking it up, but here it was, and she looked down with dispassion at the blood drying there on the steel. “She was wrong, you know,” she murmured.

“Who was, lady?” asked Cadella. 

“Jannah. She said to me once that a smile and soft words can be as deadly as a knife, and used the same, but sometimes a smile is only a smile… and a knife is only a knife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Saint Catherine of Alexandria, Duchessa Stretta's ship's namesake, is a super interesting saint in the Catholic church: she may have been based on Hypatia, the famous Greek mathematician/astronomer who was murdered by a mob of (probably) Christians, and was said to have been extremely well-educated. She was martyred for her faith after people kept converting on her account and she wouldn't recant. She's associated with healing and she's one of the important Virgin Martyrs and in a lot of hagiographical literature she's supposed to be kinda mystically married to Jesus along with a totally different Saint Catherine, Catherine of Siena (who was a total boss, by the way, but ask me about that on Twitter @neon_heartbeat).  
> \- I can't remember if I already talked about the Girdle of the Virgin in previous notes but short version: the Virgin Mary appeared to Saint Thomas after she was assumed into Heaven and gave him her belt so he could prove to the other apostles what he'd seen in a neat kind of role reversal for him, since he was the only apostle who didn't see Resurrected Jesus when he appeared to everyone else at dinner that first time. The relic is still kept in the Prato Cathedral to this day.  
> \- I have a thing for just making Hux the Worst and I am Sorry, press F to pay respects, but god do I love the imagery of Cadella just going ham on him with a giant gold crucifix  
> \- Added another chapter because I realized I am a Moron and had two chapter 18's in my draft, oops, there were always 21 chapters! I am a Fool! I am SORRY.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: suicidal ideation/thoughts, graphic descriptions of a battlefield/gore

It was afternoon before Cadella and Renata reached the villa, even going as fast as the poor horse could take them. Renata slipped from the carriage and Detto, seeing her soiled in blood, almost fainted. 

“Lady!” he cried, grasping her hands. “What has happened? Are you wounded?”

“No,” she said impatiently, “no, not badly, Detto, though you are kind to ask. I must bathe and have my arm looked after, then send Cadella to make haste to Rome.”

“Rome? Rome?” He followed her in, bewildered. “She cannot go to Rome, lady: I was charged by the Lady d’Organa to keep you both here until the war—”

“I have news that will change the tide of the war, and the lady must hear it, else she perish,” said Renata, turning to him. “I beg you, Signore Detto, do not stand in our way, else you meet the fate of the man whose blood this is.”

He paled and stepped back. “You mean someone has tried to harm you? Here?”

“In Prato,” said Cadella, hurrying up to her side. “A priest, a man she remembered seeing in Rome: he was paid with Genoan coin and was charged to bring her to Rome by the Duke of Genoa. If the Duca di Fumoso truly is in Rome, allied with the Pope, then the war’s tide will be turned.”

“Holy God, preserve our souls,” said Detto, crossing himself. “Yes, lady Renata— you go up; I will draw a bath myself—”

“That is not necessary,” said Renata quickly, “it is too much time on Cadella’s account. I will wash quickly and Bibi can bandage my arm. You will make ready the fastest horses you have, and get a coach prepared for her.”

“Yes, lady,” he said, and ran for the door as she hurried up the stairs with Cadella.

* * *

Pinno stood on the walls and looked down at the encampment round about the walls of the Holy See. They had sprung up near two months ago almost overnight, in one of the most well-thought out attacks he had ever dreamed possible: Lady d’Organa, excommunicated or no, had inflamed the hearts of the people of Rome, and they had taken up their own arms— whether that be kitchen knives, or iron pokers, or clubs— and marched on the Vatican with Lady Falena’s armies, decrying the corrupt Pope, shouting for him to come out and face judgment. He almost wished he could do the same without being killed.

Rumor had it that the Venetians were coming, too, though when and where only God knew. Pinno rather wished he could see Pavo di Damerone again, even from this great height: he had liked the man well, and wondered about him often. Was he safe in Venice? Had Bambina found him again? His thoughts went to Rosa, as they often did, and the night he had set her free: the ways through the walls were well-hidden, and he had let her out a small hole by a scullery-door, through the gate. He wondered where she was: if she was all right, if she had made it safe out of Rome before the war had begun: may God have led her far away from this place. When he found a quiet moment, he oft said a silent prayer for her.

Then there was the matter of Solo to contend with. The man seemed to have lost his very soul: he walked like a man in a dream. He hardly ate, and if his pages could be believed, he did not sleep: he spent the nights in silence, not even praying any longer. It infuriated Pinno: he had lived through the worst torments the Pope could devise, and he was in a place to strike if he so pleased— and yet he did nothing?  _ I ought not to have trusted him, _ he thought bitterly, walking the parapets.  _ I had no such luxury of despair when I was brought to Rome: yet here I stand, living and able.  _ Rosa had taken pity on him, but Pinno could wring no such emotion from his own heart, not even for the man who was now his commander. Captain-General of the Papal Armies, indeed. 

There was also the matter of that awful woman, La Fantasma, who glided about from the Pope to Pinno knew not where. She always wore silver plate or cloth, and if rumor was to be believed, she fought like a man, and was bigger than most men in the Papal armies. Some giantess from the far North, no doubt: the guards feared to displease her, for she had the ear of the Pope. Pinno often wondered what her purpose was, but did not ask: he preferred to keep his head low, that it might not be struck from his shoulders.

* * *

“I have here a leather wrap,” Detto said, thrusting it into Cadella’s hands as Renata, fresh from a quick scrub and changed into clean clothing, sat hastily writing a letter. “You may use it to carry your letter safe. It belongs to the Duchessa Stretta, and has not been used in years.”

“Thank you, Detto,” said Renata, distracted as she finished a sentence. Bibi had dressed her wound tightly, and was packing bread and olives and wine for the journey in the kitchen. “Cadella will carry it. Is the coach ready?”

“Ready and waiting, lady, with fresh horses.” He bowed from the waist and left, preoccupied with his duties, and Renata signed her name to the letter, then turned to Cadella, who was looking into the leather case, frowning. “Here,” she said. “I will seal it with my ring: it only says that the Duca di Fumoso has sent a man to kill me and bring me to Rome, and I suspect that he is allying himself with— Della, whatever are you reading?”

“Oh, there is a letter inside here already,” said Cadella, looking up. “I am sorry, Rei— what does  _ a-s-s-a-s-s-i-n-a-t-e-d _ spell?”

“Assassinated,” said Renata, frowning. 

“And what does  _ fil-i-cide _ mean?”

“The act of killing one’s own child. What on earth are you reading?”

Cadella narrowed her eyes at the paper and began to read slowly and clearly. “‘Leah d’Organa, Lady of Rome, to the noble Duchessa Stretta. May God bless and keep you. I have just re— received word that Cardinal di Palatine has chosen his… hair—’”

“Heir,” said Renata, feeling very queer.

“Heir, then— why is there an  _ h _ if I do not say it?”

“It is how the word is spelt: pray go on.”

“Very well: heir— ‘she is a child of three or so, and he has se-secured her already in his apar...apartments in Rome. I have on good faith by word of a serving-girl in the  _ palazzo _ that the man has already dis-dispatched the poor thing’s mother and father: they were  _ assassinated _ —’ there— ‘by a most foul trick. Guilia was given poisoned wine delivered to her as a gift, and the poor woman died in agony. As for Guiseppe, someone took him hunting and he was shot four times, the men who took him claiming to have mi-mistaken him for a deer. I have no doubt that all their purses became heavier soon after with di Palatine gold: the man has never been above filicide, as we suspected. I will pray for the child’s soul: her cir-circum-stan-ces can only shape her to wickedness, poor innocent thing. All Rome looks the other way, for he has wealth and power, as you well guessed. In the name of God, be well.’ There is nothing else, lady.”

Renata sat still as stone on her chair. 

_ Nothing else.  _ Guilia and Giuseppe… her parents’ names. They had had  _ names _ : they had lived and borne her and she had never considered their names, nor wondered what they were. She could not even weep: some awful emotion was boiling under her heart, and her eyes were dry in the heat of it.  _ My mother. My father. Poisoned wine and four arrows.  _ It could not be true… and yet it was true: this letter said it, and there could be no lie where there was no purpose to do so.  _ He killed them. He killed them to steal me away. He would do the same to my own children if given the chance. They would be only proof of my sin with the Cardinal, and he would— he would kill me, as he killed my parents.  _ That terrible emotion was still burning in her breast. “He killed them,” she said aloud, and her voice did not sound like hers. “He  _ killed _ my mother and father.”

“My lady,” said Cadella, bowing her head. “I am sorry.”

“He murdered them,” said Renata again, standing up. “My God, I have been a fool: all my life I have wanted to please him? Please him! He who kills his own family, who would just as soon see me dead for not conforming to his mighty will? Well, my will is as strong as his, and my fury as great: I will ride to Rome with you.”

“What?” gasped Cadella. “But, lady—”

“I said I will ride to Rome, and warn the Lady d’Organa myself, and after that, God willing, I will put a blade through my grandfather’s eye: he  _ killed my parents _ —” and she began to gasp for air, though no tears fell: that thing in her breast was fury, rage stoked to a blaze. “Get me my travelling-cloak, Della: there is no more time left to argue. You are going to Rome, and I am coming with you.”

* * *

Night had fallen over Rome. Captain-General Solo of the Papal Armies sat on the floor in his chambers: they were far grander than anything he had ever had before, with marble walls and carvings of saints and angels, a bed with silk and velvet trappings, and a great window looking out over the innermost court, where camped the armies of the Duca di Fumoso. He had been clever, the old Duke: he had brought his men in little by little months ago, pretending to be farmers, merchants, any number of men: they had escaped suspicion of the opposing army that now encamped about the walls of the Vatican. 

_ May God grant us all a swift death, _ he thought, sitting with his back to the bedstead, at the foot of it. He had eyed the window many a time, considering a fall to the stone below, and whether or not he would die immediately, or die in agony, or worse— not die at all, and be dragged back to the dungeons to be punished for taking his life, which belonged to the Pope, into his own hands. Solo had even come to the point of standing in the open window, feeling the cold wind on his cheeks and looking down at the stones below, before deciding that the uncertainty of a swift demise was too great, and not worth the attempt to gain it.  _ I once told her that it was no sin to despair.  _ It was a very small comfort to know that he understood some of her agony: to be so trapped with no way out, to be lost… yet she had found escape in the end, whereas he never would.

There was an empty bottle of wine at his elbow. Strange, that. It had been full when he had sat down. He held his hands up to the light from the lamps, turning them front to back: it felt as if he was two men living in one body. One was Beniamino Solo, with all his passion and penitence, and the other this mockery of a captain-general, who was a puppet only, and soon to die, and had no soul or will or heart, spurred on by nothing. All of Beniamino Solo had been carved away, piece by bloody piece, and he felt only a speck, perhaps, remained of the man he had been.  _ That part… that piece of me clings to the vow he made, _ he thought dully, and turned the bottle upside down. Nothing dripped from the neck. Yes, he could have sworn it was full...

It should have been enough to make him want to live— that promise on his lips, her large, soft eyes. It was not. Or perhaps it was holding his soul to this present world by force: like a thread, perhaps, but a thread of spun steel.  _ Only another few days: I shall die, and I may see her before the end if God is gracious. _ Had she not reminded him of God’s mercy, once? How he had feared to not be a man of God, then. How meaningless it all seemed, the vows, the oaths— looking at his own death.  _ As through a glass, darkly.  _ There was now no longer any Cardinal Solo, and he was only a man, a man like any other, with sinew and flesh and blood and bone that would one day crumble to dust and ash, as all men must.

Solo looked at his hands again. The light shone through the thin web of flesh connecting his thumb and forefinger, showing pink through it, the veins dark like spiderwebs.  _ There are my hands, _ he thought.  _ My hands, my blood within: they will be gone one day.  _ His head was spinning. The light was to blame for these thoughts. The light showed him the secrets under his skin, and brought the veins up like marble; exposed the faults, the seams. He closed his fist and dropped it into his lap, shutting his eyes as his head swam, unused to so much wine.  _ Seams and faults, and cracks: put a knife’s point into them and I will crack open like the coin… the false coin... _ he was the false coin; used to buy trust, used to buy armies, and Renata...

She deserved a better ending than he. It brought him something like peace to think of the war being over, and Renata forgetting him: she would go far away from Rome and the stink of sin that permeated every brick and stone. She might marry well, and live a life of comfort with a husband who treated her as she ought to be treated— with kindness and gentleness, love and honor.  _ I had desired to see her grow old,  _ he thought,  _ with gray in her hair…  _ but that was too great of a gift to ask of God, now. It felt a sin to even think about living past the war: of being, perhaps, her family’s priest, ministering at her side, baptizing her children in the chapel of some fine house in Tuscany or Venice, being her beloved shepherd and guide all his life. He could almost see it: the white christening-gowns, the water gleaming in the font, his finger marking the sign of the Cross on a baby’s brow— guiding her children through catechisms, counselling her husband, whoever he might be. 

“I gave up my Cardinalate,” he said aloud, hoarse and ruined, and tears pricked hot at the corner of his eyes as the dream vanished like dew on a summer morning. “I can no longer be any man’s priest.”  _ Fool, fool that I am, _ he thought as he drew the heel of his hand across his damp eyes. May she forget him, and may she go on and live: he had nothing left but his body, and the candles were burning low.

* * *

Under ordinary circumstances, it was a nearly four day journey to Rome by carriage, accounting for horses trotting the entire way. Renata had no patience for that, however, and urged the coachman to force the poor beasts to gallop like mad as often as could be done without exhausting them. She spent her time in the coach clinging to the letters with one hand and her belly with the other while Cadella prayed silently, head bowed and lips pale. Her knife and several Genoese ducats were tucked safe away in the leather pouch.

_ It is very likely we go to our deaths, _ she thought with resignation. Death it may be, but Renata had never been afraid of it: not until now, that was.  _ May we find safety there in Rome. O God, may we be safe.  _ She had never been more aware of her own body and all its weaknesses. She had not been afraid of death, but now there were two others to be concerned with: her children.  _ They must not die, _ she thought, shutting her eyes tight.  _ Oh God, let me live to bear them.  _ She could almost pretend she saw them— sweet children with dark eyes and hair, her own smile, their father’s strong cheekbones. Perhaps they would even have his ears (God help them if they were girls!) or his freckles: the beauty-marks that she had loved so much.  _ You have a grandmother, _ she thought silently to them, looking out the window of the coach.  _ A grandmother who, if she lives, God willing, will love you; who is kind, who will be nothing like my own grandfather.  _ That made her feel a little better. She remained still, breathing evenly as Cadella muttered the  _ Ave Maria _ over and over.

They reached Rome in a day and a half. The horses were blowing and panting, foam flying from their bodies as they trotted up to the northern Aurelian walls in the pitch dark. The sun had long since set, but torches and lamps burned along the walls as they drew nearer. 

“Halt!” shouted a voice, and Cadella looked out of the coach in terror at an approaching man in armor and mail. Was it one of the Pope’s men, or one of Lady d’Organa’s? “Halt— who comes here? Do you not know there is a war on?”

“What must I say?” hissed Cadella, white as chalk. “Renata?”

“I—” Renata leaned from the carriage. “Who asks?” she shouted, at a loss of what else to say.

“The Holy City of Rome asks, lady; none enters this gate except by the Pope’s orders—”

A very strange sound was thrumming in the dark. Renata turned her head to listen to it, and the man at the gate fell silent, too. It sounded like thunder, distant and small, but growing louder moment by moment. “Do you hear that?” she whispered to Cadella, who leaned out with her. The coachman suddenly gave a cry, and urged the horses closer to the wall, which elicited a shout from the guard, and Renata flung the door open, almost falling out as the wheels kept moving. “Something is coming!” she screamed, and panic filled her: what if it was the Duca di Fumoso’s men?  _ I have been a fool! _ She would be trapped out here with Cadella, with only her wits to save her and the coachman. Quickly, she fell back, shutting the door, snatched up her leather wrap with the knife inside, and grabbed Cadella by the wrist, shouting up for the coachman to run: perhaps he, at least, would find himself alive by the end of the night. He seemed happy to obey— the coach rattled and squeaked as he leaped off, and then all was silent, save for the shouts from the guard and the distant rumbling.

The thundering came closer, and Cadella gripped Rei’s arm so tightly that her nails dug into the fabric. “Rei,” she gasped, trembling, “we are going to die.”

“We are not going to die,” Rei whispered, resolve creeping up her spine as she clutched the knife and drew it from her bag, holding it in front of her as if she planned to ward off the whole Genoan army with it. “Stay behind me.”

Even terrified for her life, Cadella sounded scandalized. “You are with  _ child _ —”

The thundering sound ceased slowly, and the sounds of snorts and hooves on the road and the ground drifted through the open window. Their own horses whinnied, greeting the unseen cavalry, and Rei pressed her own hand over her mouth, dreading to make a noise as a pair of boots crunched on the dead winter grass… closer… ever closer… and with a great bang, the door to the coach was flung open. 

Cadella screamed. Renata pointed the knife at the man in surcoat, armor, and helmet who stood there, gleaming in the light from the torches behind him, and shouted, “Do not dare come any closer! I swear by the blood of Christ, I will drive this blade into your heart!”

“Lady Renata?” he asked, from deep inside the helmet, in a tone of astonishment. “Can it be you?”

She lowered the knife. That voice! She knew it, it was familiar, but whose was it? “Who are you?” she demanded, trembling. “Speak, and tell me!”

He reached up and unbuckled his helmet, letting it fall: it was a handsome man with a finely formed face, olive skin gleaming in the light, and the beginnings of a beard— but she knew him! “Lady, I had not known it was you,” said Pavo di Damerone, Doge of Venice. “From whence came you and your maid? And why so late?”

She ought to have curtsied, or greeted him politely. Instead, all Renata could manage was “Pavo!” and half-fell into his arms, trembling with relief. “Oh, thank God; you are an ally and a friend.”

He raised her up, looking into her face with confusion. “We heard you had been spirited away by angels in the night, and yet you have returned.”

“I have been no such thing,” she said, drawing herself up. “No: I was spirited away by flesh and blood, and now I have terrible news that the Lady d’Organa must hear.”

“Terrible news?” Pavo said, and his eyes went to her waist before meeting her eyes again, but there was no judgment or shock there, only curiosity and confusion. “Indeed?” 

“Oh—” She felt herself flushing crimson. “No: I beg you not to ask me. It is for her ears alone: we have just come from Florence, from the house of the Duchessa Stretta.”

“Stretta! Then you must have seen Bambina, that fine maid of my acquaintance.” She could not be sure, but she thought a flush deepened across his cheeks, under the growing beard. “Did that fair lady... say aught of me?”

She had to laugh. “Yes, much and more. Can you take us through the city?”

“Did she? Good. Lady, I would take you anywhere. Someone get me two chargers!” he shouted behind him, and a man in gold and brown came running up with two fine steeds. “You can ride with me at the front of the columns: in the morning everyone will be whispering about how God has returned their princess to them in this last hour.”

“I am grateful to you,” she said, and kissed his cheek before clambering up on the saddle. It was not a lady’s saddle, but there was no use complaining: Cadella got up on the second one, looking very frightened. She was not a good rider, and preferred a cart, but managed to guide her horse along up to Rei’s under the expert hand of her old acquaintance Signore Schiocco, who was with them, and so they entered Rome all together, safe among the cavalry of Venice.

* * *

“Di Damerone!” shouted Jannah, running pell-mell down the beaten earth of the encampment at the southern Leonine walls. “Lady, Venice is here!”

A delighted cheer went up in the predawn air: as the sky went from gray to rose the great column of horses and men streamed up the Via Sacra, led at the column by the Doge, Pavo di Damerone in armor without a helm, and a woman: a woman who rode astride with her head held high and her billowing gown of travel-stained yellow silk rippling like the sunrise itself. Another cry went up as the ragged army that held the city saw her face and the ring on her hand, and whispers went from mouth to ear: “ _ The principessa of Rome! Lady Renata is with us! Renata! Renata!” _

Leah d’Organa rushed from her command tent at the cry and paled in shock as they neared the Vatican walls: it  _ was _ the girl, and she looked haggard and drawn in spite of her straight back and gentle demeanor towards those who cried her name— and what was more, that high-cut gown with all its folds could not disguise everything to a woman’s eye. Her mind went at once to the letter her son had sent to her the night they had stolen the girl away, and she knew immediately what had happened.  _ But why is she here? What could she hope to gain from coming? _

“God in Heaven,” she said, and stepped forth. “Someone get the lady down when she arrives and help her in: she looks as if she were about to faint— Cadella!” For it was Cadella, her own Cadella riding behind the girl, and the maid looked just as exhausted as the lady. What on earth was happening? Had the world turned upside down? Why had she brought the princess back to Rome?

The ladies slid off their steeds and di Damerone helped Renata, steadying her as her feet touched the earth. “Take care, lady,” he said, and that was all he got out before Lady d’Organa marched up. 

“By God!” she shouted, apoplectic. “Cadella! I charged you to get this lady away from Rome, to keep her in Florence!”

Renata slid to her knees, bowing her head before Lady d’Organa, all her skirts like molten gold. “My lady,” she whispered, trembling. “I must beg your forgiveness in a hundred different ways, not the least of which is my disobedience: do not fault Cadella for it. Something has happened. I have here a few coins, Genoan ducats, which were found in the purse of a priest who tried to kill me as I sat at prayer in Prato.”

Pavo di Damerone started in shock: he had not heard this tale, it seemed. “Kill you?” he asked.

“Genoan ducats?” asked Lady d’Organa, astonished. 

Renata nodded, looking up with eyes that showed not a hint of guile or deception. “Yes: the priest threatened to bring me back to Rome, under order of the Duca di Fumoso. I believe the man is here, in Rome.”

Lady d’Organa bent and took the girl’s hands. “Rise,” she said quickly: there was no need to have this conversation in the open, and she felt she knew where it might be going. “First, we must get you new clothing: you are worn with travel— Adria,  _ mia ragazza _ , where are you?”

“Here, lady,” said a young woman, who darted up and curtsied. She was small of stature, with a smiling round face, bright dark eyes, and a widow’s peak that pointed insolently out from beneath her cap. Renata liked her at once. 

Lady d’Organa turned back to Renata. “This is my seamstress: she came from a shop in the Via Fiori and joined our cause. Who knew stitchery would be so needed during a war? And yet: banners are torn and must needs be mended, clothing must be made, altered, mended— you understand. She is as talented with a needle as any one of my men is with a blade, and wields it with more skill. Adria, go on and take our lady Renata to  _ Palazzo Bianca _ and do what you must: bring her back after breakfast.”

“At once, lady,” said Adria, and motioned for Renata to follow her down the street. Cadella took her arm, supporting her as she went: it was not a long walk, but they were both exhausted, and the sun had not yet risen.

* * *

“I suppose you have heard the news by now,” said La Fantasma, sitting in her gilded chair at the left hand of the Pope’s empty one. She had to lean across her plate to look at Solo, who was sitting at the right of the great papal seat, staring at his untouched breakfast of salt fish and dried fruit.

“Heard what, lady?” he asked flatly. A monstrous headache was throbbing its way through his temples: he ought to go lie down in a dark room until it had passed, but there was no time: the Pope had commanded that he be present all day at every meeting he had, although the man himself was not even at breakfast: where he was, Solo did not much care.

“Oh, only some rumor. It seems the Pope’s granddaughter, who was stolen away by angels, has been returned to Rome, by the grace of God.” She put a morsel of fish into her mouth and chewed very slowly, looking at Solo with those winter-blue eyes, as if waiting for a reaction.

_ Returned, _ he thought, an odd sensation rising with urgency in his breast. It took him a moment to remember its name: fear. “Indeed?” he asked flatly, still not looking at La Fantasma. “Has the Pope been told?”  _ Careful. Not a look, not a false face: do not give them a reason to doubt you. _

“He has heard the rumors, yes. Where do you think he is this morning? In counsel, of course, with the captains and watchmen, trying to discern the truth of it.” La Fantasma sipped from her cup: she never drank anything stronger than watery ale. “Along with that, you ought to look out the windows: we have been encompassed round about with Venetian cavalry overnight.”

Venetian! So Pavo di Damerone had reached the walls of Rome after all, and not a moment too soon. Something was coming back to Solo’s body: something warm and fragile and trembling, deep in his belly. “That may prove to be an obstacle,” he said, not making any expression as he inwardly stamped down the fluttering little feeling with cruel force until it was gone.

La Fantasma looked disappointed at not goading him into any reaction. She put another slice of dried apple into her mouth and chewed. “Indeed. A pity they cannot swim: the Neapolitan fleet may have Venetian cannon, but the Genoan fleet outnumbers them.”

“May God have mercy on their souls,” said Solo. “You will excuse me, la Fantasma: I have no appetite.”

“You never do,” she said, looking at him sideways. “Perhaps I should throw you into a brothel: it might get your blood to flow again like a man.”

Solo ignored the barb and walked away from the table. His hip sent a sharp pain into his leg, and he wished he had a stick to lean on.  _ Renata, here in Rome. _ Why did his head ache so badly? He could not think. She could not be back in the city. It must be a lie: some trick— he knew La Fantasma was a pawn of di Fumoso.  _ It is a trap, a test to see if I will falter. _ His mouth felt very dry: he should have had some watered ale before he left, but there was no going back now, not when the war was on their doorstep.  _ Peace, peace; I must have peace. _ He would not allow himself to think of Renata, not until the very end: she was far away, and safe.

A voice called out, dry and impatient: a voice he knew and feared. “Solo!”

“Yes, Holy Father?” he said, turning immediately. The Pope was storming toward him, leaning on his new walking-stick: it was ivory capped in gold. On his right walked the Duca di Fumoso, as withered as ever, with a gleam in his eye Solo did not like. 

“We have need of you. The Venetians have decided this very morning to join the fray, and even now are encamped round the walls of the Holy See: you are Captain-General.”

So that, at least, was true. “I am,” he said placidly. “I fail to see what you would have me do, Holy Father: I cannot make them vanish.”

The Pope raised his stick and cracked it across Solo’s shoulder. He staggered and dropped to his knees, pain blazing through his back. “Insolent,” he snarled. “Go send a party to ask what it is they want: act your part, you idiot!”

“Yes, Holy Father,” Solo managed, agony still coursing through his arm. The Duca scoffed lightly and the pair of them turned, walking away, ignoring him entirely where he knelt on the cold marble. 

* * *

“The gates are opening,” said Jannah, peering past the line of men at the wall. “They carry a white flag: men are coming out— not many. Eight Vatican guards, all in full dress, and a very tall man in silver armor.”

“Then I shall meet them,” said Lady d’Organa. She drew herself up and walked out to meet them, Jannah at her left side and Signore Schiocco at her right, Pavo di Damerone and four of his men flanking them. “The sun is hardly high yet: what can they want?”

As they drew nearer, they could see that the tall man in silver was no man at all, but a woman: a woman over six foot tall with pale curls of light hair and cold blue eyes, who bore nothing in her hands, but who had a broadsword hanging from her belt. They halted five feet apart, and the two parties simply looked at each other. Jannah looked at the Vatican guards, and suddenly knew—  _ Pinno! _ Her lips parted, but she kept her face serene, and he did the same, the only emotion on his face in those soft dark eyes as his hands moved in quick, subtle motions like birds’ wings. 

“What is it the Pope wishes to say?” asked Lady d’Organa lightly, looking up into the woman’s face. “It must be of great import, if he sends such a party of armored men at sunrise.”

The woman’s lip curled. “I am not a man, lady. The Holy Father asks what it is you desire from Rome, since you have besieged her holiest part.”

Lady d’Organa smiled. “Oh, is that all? Tell the Pope, then, that all we desire is that he depart Rome at once and take his filth and corruption with him. Under his leadership the common people starve, the downtrodden are oppressed, and wickedness runs rampant at every level of the Vatican. We desire a Pope who will follow God, not mammon.”

“And in return?”

“In return, we will allow him to keep what remains of his life,” said Lady d’Organa. “Tell him that.”

“I shall: thank you,” said the woman without any courtesy, and turned about, marching her men back into the gate of the Holy See, and the doors shut tight behind them.

* * *

Renata admired herself in the mirror of her room in the Palazzo Bianca. She had eaten a quick breakfast and washed, changing the bandage on her arm clumsily, and Adria had made a gown appear in almost no time at all: it was beautiful, deep crimson silk and velvet with a fine white chemise that set off her skin and hair wonderfully. 

“It belonged to some fine lady or other,” Adria had explained as she pinned and stitched madly. “We have raided many a wardrobe and chest in the city as the Pope’s fine supporters abandoned Rome, and found so much: linens can be made into bandages, and plates can be hammered into greaves in a pinch.” Fine lady or no, it fit Renata well, and she thought she looked very fine and even fashionable with her hair done properly and a caul of scarlet net pinning it in place. The gown was so high-waisted and full that nobody might even tell she was with child unless she pulled the skirt close. Yes, it would do very well.

“Cadella,” she called, and the girl appeared, very resolute-looking and clear-eyed in her serviceable green and yellow gamurra. “I must go speak to the Lady d’Organa now: or as soon as I can.”

Adria popped back in, arms full of more gowns. “She is at the great tent on the field: go and find her. All of them sleep here, and I will make sure you have clothes to last.” She bobbed a curtsey, and Renata returned it with thanks, then followed Cadella out, down the road and back to the Vatican.

How different it all seemed out here! Renata had never been permitted to know much about the workings of the city, nor to speak too closely with its people aside from her rides through the highest streets, but it was clear that even close to the heart of the Vatican things had fallen into disrepair. Stone was crumbling, beggar-children with hungry eyes scurried back and forth, eating scraps from the army’s cookfires, windows were broken, the streets were filthy.  _ How did I not see this before? _ She felt almost guilty: she had never before considered why anyone might want to oust the Pope, but looking at the state of Rome, it was clear that much was amiss.  _ He spoke once of raising taxes to fight the Turks, _ she thought dismally,  _ and yet I am sure all that money never saw a single spear.  _

The tent was bustling when she arrived, and most fell silent as she stepped in, looking at her with curiosity. She saw, to her great relief, Lady Falena, her red hair done up in a simple braid about her head. “So it is true!” the lady exclaimed, seizing her by the hands and kissing her. “You have returned: but why?”

Renata looked at Cadella, and Cadella stepped forward and emptied the contents of the leather case out to the table: The bloodstained knife, the Genoan ducats, and the letter: all came tumbling out in a clatter, and a few people shouted in surprise at the sight. “There,” said Renata, “that is why. The Duca di Fumoso sent a priest to kill me or bring me back to Rome in Prato, when I was in Florence: he is here, in the city, and I believe he has allied himself with the Pope.”

A dismayed clamor went up from the table, and Lady d’Organa sank into her seat, looking very tired. “And what numbers does the Duca di Fumoso bring?”

Renata pointed at the map. “A great fleet from Genoa, which, if called for to break the siege of the Tiber, might arrive at any moment. He also possesses a great army of foot-soldiers.”

“He cannot have such a great army: nobody has seen it,” said Signore Schiocco. “There has been no rumor of any army on the road to Rome in the past months.”

“The army is already within the Vatican,” said Jannah, startling them all. “Pinno— I have a friend inside the walls, and he was part of the party sent out with that woman in silver armor. He told me so.”

“Told you?” asked Lady d’Organa, raising her eyebrows. “How? I heard no speech but that of the woman.”

“With his hands,” Jannah said. “There is a way to speak, lady, without words: the movements of hands and fingers may be used to say things. Pinno tells me that there are another four thousand men within the walls, brought in secret over the past months.”

“Four thousand!” said Pavo di Damerone, shocked. “We cannot hope to fight such an army.”

“The Pope knows we have no power to stop him,” said Lady d’Organa. “If the Genoan fleet breaks the siege on the river, they come ashore and we are caught between the walls of the Vatican, bristling with a hidden army, and the river. It is a trap.”

_Thousands of people, dead._ Renata was trembling. _How can I stand by and watch while so many are killed? Pavo, Jannah, all my friends?_ _What is my life to theirs?_ “There may be a way,” she said, hardly knowing she was saying it, “to force the Pope to lay down his arms.”

“How, then, lady?” asked Pavo, blinking at her.

She raised her chin and blinked tears from her face. “I am his grandchild. I know that he does not care for me— indeed, that he likely hates me— but he has no other heirs, nor family. He wanted me returned to Rome, to the Holy See, or at least the Duca did, and since he has returned to Rome with such an army to fight for the Pope, I am given to understand that it was the will of the Pope that I be brought back to this place. And I…” She swallowed hard, but pressed her hand to the crimson velvet, so every eye in the room went to her belly. “I am now carrying twins.” All the air left Lady d’Organa’s throat at once, but Renata pressed on, undaunted. “If I ride up to the gates with a white banner, demanding to speak to him— and offer myself up, perhaps he might be merciful, and let you all depart with your lives at least.”

“No,” said Lady d’Organa, thin and strained. “No: he will kill you, Renata, and the children you carry—”

“He will not kill me if I am with child, nor after I bear them: infants need their mothers.” Renata paced a little, agitated. “That was why he did not kill my own parents until I was older: about three, if I read that letter aright. I see it now. Oh, he had such plans: I was to be wed to a great prince, or lord, or doge. Above that, I was to bear little di Palatine children for him to use for his own purposes, as my mother must have borne me for him. Now, these are the only children he will ever see born to the name again, and the thought that they might be mothered by his own granddaughter, who could be turned back to his side? The temptation will be too great for him to resist.”

Lady d’Organa caught her by the hand, looking aghast. “You cannot do this. Not after so much was done to get you free of this place—”

“But I am correct,” said Renata simply, “am I not?” It did not matter, she knew, as she looked around at all their stricken faces, that she would die for her children: die she might, and then Grandfather would take them anyway. She had to live, to raise them as she could while she lived— to be useful, to make herself worth living in the eyes of the Pope.  _ And I might outlive him: then what? _ she thought, vindictively.

“She is,” said the Lady Falena, pale and serene as the moon as she stepped forth. “It may be our only hope.”

“And should he take her into the walls, then wage war regardless of any promises?” demanded Pavo di Damerone.

“Then we will fight to the last man knowing we did all we could,” said Signore Schiocco heavily. 

“We will run up a white flag as soon as may be prudent, then,” said Lady Solo. “Let the poor girl have some sleep before she is handed back over to her devil of a grandfather.” Renata curtsied and made to go, but the lady took her wrist. “Renata,” she said, soft and low, “My son… he is the father, is he not?”

Renata felt her eyes well with tears. “I am sorry,” she whispered. 

There was no grief, only iron and steel in that lady’s eyes as she looked into Renata’s face. “Make him pay, then,” she whispered, and released her hand, letting her walk back down to the Palazzo Bianca. 

* * *

The sun had reached its noonday apex and was starting its slow descent when a cry went up from the  _ Santa Caterina,  _ its seamen scrambling to load the cannon on the deck. “ _ A fleet! A fleet!” _

The Duchessa Stretta caught up a yellow banner and raced to the foredeck as fast as she could, waving frantically to the shore until an answering crimson banner met her signal.  _ They have seen it.  _ She set the banner down and ran back to the deck, shouting to bring the ship around: the broadside had cannon, but they were in shallow waters here, and the boats from Genoa were faster, sleeker, more maneuverable. “Bring her about! About! Tell the whole fleet to come about and face east or west! Broadside cannon face south!  _ South! _ ”

The banners of the Duca di Fumoso were unfurling across the river in the cool wind: that yellow spearhead on black sent chills down Amalia Stretta’s spine. The ships were coming on fast, and at their head, the Duke’s own  _ Supremazia,  _ was a long, wicked-looking thing, designed for a shallow river… and outfitted with more cannon than any other ship: the pride of the fleet. Now they were close enough to see the decks, and Stretta’s mouth went dry as cotton: they were aiming not at the fleet but at the Vatican walls, at the encampment there.  _ God have mercy, _ she thought, horrified.  _ They will be torn apart like so much butcher’s meat.  _

The cannons on the  _ Santa Caterina _ were loaded. She ordered them to fire, but their Venetian cannon was no match for the great oak prow, and their position meant that if they moved broadside along the command ship, they would leave the shore unguarded. Stretta knew at once that the Genoese fleet could not be allowed to disembark, whatever happened. 

“Draw back!” she screamed over the sounds of cannons exploding. “Run up the green banner, draw back: guard the shore at all costs!” The Neapolitan fleet began to turn at the signal, the green canvas snapping wildly in the wind, and Stretta saw the captain of the fleet aboard the Genoese command vessel. Some sea-captain, no doubt— then she saw the black coat and missing hand, and knew him: it was that old pirate called only “Bruttatesta” by all from Genoa to Sicily, who had long enjoyed the protections of the Duca di Fumoso in return for ensuring stolen wealth filled the Duke’s purse.  _ Old Brutta will rue the day he sailed up the Tiber, _ she thought, and turned back around, looking at the shore.  _ I will make sure of it. _

Their fleet was too slow to move. The  _ Supremazia’s  _ cannons went off. Amalia could only cry out in helpless horror as chained balls spun wildly into the encampment: red mists burst from the land, and distant screams echoed across the water, mingled with cannon-fire. 

* * *

Renata woke from her nap to the sound of cries and the ground rumbling as if Judgment Day had come. “What is it?” she called out in fear to Cadella, who was shaking her shoulder. 

“The Genoan fleet has come up the Tiber: they are firing on the camp from the water!” She was pulling at Renata’s arm, trying to get her up: Rei got to her feet, dazed, and had the presence of mind to put her shoes on before hurrying out into the street. 

The Palazzo Bianca was protected from the river by a number of other streets, but even at this distance they could hear the shouts and screams from the Leonine walls. People ran everywhere in the streets, panicked and crying out: Renata quickened her step and followed Cadella down the road. As they neared the encampment, she looked down and saw blood in the cobbles of the street, running like wastewater. Her stomach roiled, and she lifted her skirts to keep them out of the gore. 

There was no saving her clothes once they reached the Vatican walls. Gore and bone shards littered the ground like so much offal, and she had to hold her sleeve to her nose: it reeked like a slaughterhouse. Men lay on the ground, screaming and moaning, holding their innards to their bodies: men’s limbs had been blown away. Renata saw chained cannonballs embedded in the walls, in the houses, in the streets:  _ the Genoese fleet, _ she thought with some horror as she ran through pools of blood, her skirts soaking it up. “Lady d’Organa!” she screamed, consumed with the terrible thought that she might have died— or Pavo, or Lady Falena, or any of them. “Lady! My lady!”

The command tent was intact, save for a collapsed pole: it had been sheltered from the river by a large building. What the building had been, Rei did not know or care: she ran inside and almost collapsed with relief that Pavo and the Lady d’Organa were still inside. “Lady,” she gasped, a dreadful stitch in her side, “what must we do?”

“Do?” The older woman was girding up her gown, snatching bandages from a basket. “We must go and help our men: the Duchessa Stretta will handle the fleet.”

“But she cannot,” Rei panted, “not against such a fleet—”

“We can do nothing to help her.” The lady’s eyes were dark and snapping with fire as she shoved bandage rolls into Renata’s hands. “Take these and start finding wounded men. It will not be difficult to find some.”

“The gate,” said Renata, trembling. “The gate: there is still time— the armies have not come forth. I can ride up and demand an audience, under a white flag of truce.”

“The—” Lady d’Organa looked about wildly, as if expecting some angel to descend and give her counsel, but there was none forthcoming. “Falena!” The other woman darted up, red hair in disarray and dust on her face. “You take these bandages: I will take some of the Venetian cavalry to the gate with di Damerone and command the rest to guard the walls. Get archers on the banks: have them shoot at the ships— it is all we can do.”

“But where are you going?” cried Lady Falena, clutching the bandages to her breast.

“To the gate, to the gate! to treat with that Pope and make him see reason one last time. If I do not return, I place it all in your hands.” Lady d’Organa kissed her cheek and turned to Renata. “Come along, my child. Find a horse and a cloak. We can show your old grandfather a better party, I think, than that dreadful woman and a few Vatican guards.”

* * *

Back on the Tiber, Amalia Stretta took the wheel of the  _ Santa Caterina _ , shouting orders for the sailors to abandon ship at once. The  _ Supremazia _ was loading to fire once more, and the wind was in her favor. Stretta eyed the long, sharp prow of her own ship, plated for war in steel as hard as diamond, and set her shoulders in resolve.

The ship careened about in the water. The wind picked up with a sudden speed, enough to whip her loosening hair from its coif and send it flying in tendrils. “Abandon ship!” she shouted again, waving, and the sailors who could swim leaped overboard: the others lowered the last boat, and then Duchessa Stretta was alone on the Tiber, racing toward the  _ Supremazia _ with enough speed, she hoped, to do what must be done. Had God caused the wind? Was it chance? Stretta did not know: those were questions for philosophers, and she had no time to think of such things, for she was on her way to die.

The prow of the  _ Caterina _ punched a hole into the oak side of the  _ Supremazia  _ with a great crash and shudder, the water churning up and the planks cracking as men screamed and leaped from the ship. Stretta was thrown from the wheel to the deck, sliding about as her head struck a mast: the deck was tilting. The  _ Supremazia _ was taking on water, its mighty cannons sliding to the side, forcing it off-balance— and with it, the  _ Santa Caterina _ was careening to the side, the deck tilting. 

_We are both going to sink,_ she thought dreamily, and looked up through the blood in her eyes at Brutta, who was screaming hoarsely for someone to start working the pumps. He met her stare as he clung to the side of the ship, mortal fear written there, and Amalia Stretta knew at once that he, like her, did not know how to swim. 

“Go to Hell,” she said, closing her eyes as the Tiber gathered them all into her cold, green depths.

* * *

Captain-General Solo, armed and armored, strode through the yard that bristled with gleaming soldiers ready for battle, limping slightly as he reached his horse. A white flag had been raised outside the walls, and he had heard the great clamor of the assault from the river Tiber. The  _ Supremazia,  _ pride of the Duca di Fumoso, had been rammed and sunk, and the Duke’s rage at having a fleet without a commander was fearsome to behold. From the walls, Solo had seen that the Genoan fleet had pulled back, without command and waiting for orders, while the Neapolitan fleet had drawn in close, protecting the shore: the army encamped might escape easily now— yet a flag had been raised, so they must all go and see what the uprisers wanted. 

His enormous black charger, Forzare, snorted as he climbed up into the saddle: no helmet for this, a diplomatic engagement. The sunlight glinting off his silvered armor made him squint. He sent up a silent, weak prayer that his resolve would not falter in the face of his mother’s gaze. On one side of him rode the Pope on his white horse, and the Duca di Fumoso in glimmering gold cloth on his own grey mare rode on the other. Both were unhelmed, and the Pope had remained in his white vestments: nobody would dare lay a hand on him, not even the Lady d’Organa, for she believed in justice by lawful means, and they knew that, because Solo had told them so. He was only a puppet, a puppet dancing on strings for the amusement of these two old men, and he could do nothing but spur Forzare onward to the gate between the gleaming rows of soldiers. Nothing mattered: not the war, not his mother who would surely hate him until he died. Nothing at all.

_ I must endure, to whatever end awaits me.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Bruttatesta is Canady! The linguistics here are fun: Canady = Kennedy, and Kennedy actually means "ugly head" so in Italian "brutta testa" is close enough, lol. I know Canady wasn't on the Supremacy, I just thought it was a fun nod.   
> \- Captain-General Solo's horse, Forzare, has a name with an... interesting translation, oh ho
> 
> \- if you have any spare change, please consider donating to the Northwest Community Bail Fund: the money will help arrested protesters in the Pacific Northwest get out of jail: https://www.nwcombailfund.org/


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, mind the tag updates! 
> 
> I know many of you will be ABSOLUTELY GUTTED by this chapter. Please trust me. I would not be so cruel as to spring certain things upon you so soon after TROS. I swear it by all the saints and my immortal soul.

The horse beneath her had a sure and steady gait as Renata clung to the reins, riding behind Lady d’Organa, who sat with a back as straight and sure as steel, her bloodstained skirts of grey and blue dripping dark at the hem. Rei looked down at her own gown. The crimson silks and velvet had blotted out all the gore. _I look untouched,_ she thought, dizzy, _apart from this…_ and her hand curved unconsciously around the swell of her belly. A cold chill went up her back: she wrapped her cloak tighter round about herself and pulled the hood down to warm her cheeks.

On her left, Pavo di Damerone rode, splendid in his gold and brown, but drawn and tired, with dust in his dark hair and smeared across his handsome face. “Take heart, sweet lady,” he said gently as they neared the gates of the wall. “It will all be over soon.”

“Over,” said Renata, shivering. Yes, over— she would offer herself up, and walk under that gate, never to see any of her friends again. She could see glimpses of the party approaching from under the broad gate: she recognized the Duca di Fumoso in his cloth of gold cloak, and (here she suppressed a shudder of fear) Grandfather in his white vestments, but a man in armor and cloak rode betwixt them whose face she could not make out. They were flanked by twenty Vatican guards in gold and scarlet, and behind them rode another in silver armor. She suddenly felt very afraid, and small, and worth nothing. 

“Behind us,” murmured di Damerone, and urged his horse forward to join d’Organa. Renata kept herself out of sight behind them: her brown woolen cloak was enough to hide her form. _Perhaps the lady will offer me up to stop all this madness, and he will not want me back after all,_ she thought in distress. 

They came to a halt on the gravel, the horses nickering in the cool air. “Hail!” shouted di Damerone. Renata stole a glance up: they were only about ten feet from the opposing party, and her heart beat madly. “The Doge of Venice and the lady d’Organa of Rome come to treat with his Holiness Sisinnius Sextus.”

“We have heard your desire to treat with us,” said the Pope thinly, and Renata fought not to weep in terror: he was going to be cruel. She could hear it in his voice: she knew that voice, hated that voice. “What do you wish of us?”

“There is no hiding it, di Palatine,” said Lady d’Organa, firm resolve in her voice. “We have sunk your _Supremazia,_ and we know another army awaits within the Vatican. Your fleet is leaderless, my lord di Fumoso. We have encompassed the walls, and we outnumber your Papal armies. It seems we are at an impasse.”

When the Pope spoke again, rage seemed to fill every word. “An impasse! We will fill the streets with rebellious blood before we say we are at any impasse!”

“Roman blood,” answered d’Organa, “and it will be all on your head. Those people are Romans: workers, merchants, women— all have risen up against you. If you win this war, it will be at the cost of your own people, and do you think then that anyone in all the Papal States, or all Italy, or all Christendom will obey or follow a Pope who kills Romans? Shall all the world crumble for your vanity?”

“Beggars and whores, fighting with clubs? They concern us not,” snarled the Pope, but his eyes spoke the truth: he knew she was correct. “What do you propose, then, Leah d’Organa, daughter of French heretics and Jews?”

“You say that as if it is meant to be some insult,” said d’Organa mildly. “Only this: we have your granddaughter, miraculously healed from her madness, and she is willing to return to your no doubt most loving and paternal arms in exchange for the Duca di Fumoso going back to Genoa at once with all his men and his fleet, and for the war to come to an end. There need be no more blood spilled this day.”

“Our granddaughter!” said the Pope, derisively. “More likely you have found some gutter-rat willing to wear fine clothes. Let us see her, then.”

“Here I am,” said Renata, and drew her head up, taking the hood down and riding forth between Pavo and d’Organa, and as she reached the line, coming on a level with the others, she saw—

She had not known him, not at first. He looked as if he had aged years in the months since she had seen him last: his bearded face was lined and grey with pain and grief, his hair had grown long, curling about his shoulders and threaded with silver, and the ugly scar she had given him across his face, the scar that might have looked roguish or dangerous on any other man, only served to make him look pitiful, a beaten thing. He wore bright armor with a scarlet and gold cape draping from the shoulder, but he sat on his saddle as if it pained him, hunched forward slightly, and his eyes were fixed on her face, his expression indecipherable. He looked like a broken thing, without any soul at all: a kicked dog, cowering and defeated. _Oh, my love, what have they done to you?_

“So,” said the Pope (and she had almost forgotten about him), “so, cured, are you? We see that you were indeed stolen away, but not by angels. Why would we desire you? No man will wed you in all Christendom after what you did to our friend di Fumoso. What part can you play, eh?”

 _What I did?_ Rage filled her, bright and sharp: _he_ had chosen to beat her before the Court, to fling her shame before the eyes of every man he knew. This injustice would not stand. “Only this part,” she snapped, and drew her cloak aside, flinging it to the ground and wheeling her horse to face the side, so that all might see her wholly. It worked: the Pope’s eyes went straight to her belly, and she made sure to pull the crimson gown snug, that there could be no mistake. “You killed the rest of them, did you not? My mother. My father. All your other family, I have no doubt, who could have been of any use to you. Well, here you are: here is the last di Palatine, and she is with child.”

Hatred seemed to waft off the man like a stench. “Only one poor little bastard heir, sired by some unknown father on a whoring mother,” said he, eyes narrowed. “What will I do if it dies of a pox at two?”

“You are in luck: I carry twins,” said Renata coldly. She could not look at Solo, she must not give him away: she felt his eyes burning through her like a brand. “Your man dal Prato—” and here the Duca di Fumoso could not disguise his stiffening back— “tried to kill me on sacred ground, to take me back to Rome, he said. How unfortunate for him.”

“And... where is dal Prato now?” asked di Fumoso cautiously.

“Feeding worms,” said Renata without a single tremor in her voice. “Bastard or no, Nonno, these children will be all you get. Make your choice.”

The Pope leaned forward, undisguised greed gleaming in his eyes. “Yes. Good, very good: I will take them when they are weaned, and they shall be legitimized by papal decree— say, to whoever I marry you off to, since you have proven yourself able to bear children. Perhaps you shall be of some use to me after all. Captain-General, go and get her: bring her to me.”

Beniamino Solo did not move. 

“Lady,” he said in a voice gone low and dark, his eyes still fixed on her as if the whole of the field, the Pope, the parties had all disappeared, leaving only the two of them. “I made you a vow, once.”

Di Fumoso looked disgusted. “You have damaged his mind, Holiness. Look at him. He is useless.”

“I said, bring her to me,” snapped the Pope, all impatience. “Now!” 

“You did,” said Renata, paralyzed by the look in his eyes as his oath to her rang in her memory. 

_I will bring justice to those who have harmed you._

There was no time to breathe, or think, or move. Solo’s sword came out of its scabbard, gleaming in the winter sunlight, and in one fell arc almost too fast to see had passed over the black horse’s head and the white horse beside it and taken off the head of the Pope in a great gout of blood that spurted up, staining terrified horse and headless rider in scarlet. 

He never took his eyes off Renata. 

Di Fumoso bellowed in terror and the Vatican guard scrambled as the Pope’s horse bucked his corpse off and bolted for the river. The other man in silver armor— no, that was a woman, a woman with pale blond hair— screamed orders, the grey mare reared, a spear pointed at Solo— it was all so fast that Renata could not see or understand what was happening. Lady D’Organa was dragging her back by her horses’ reins, shouting something she could not understand from her own mare’s back. Solo was enmired in the fray like a man come alive again, roaring like a lion as he swung his sword on horseback and ran down the guard that surrounded him, and Di Fumoso was getting away, back to the gate. 

_He must not escape!_ Renata knew that at once as her eye lit upon him: if he escaped, then the fleet would be under some command again, and so would the armies: she dismounted in a tangle of silk and velvet and crashed to the ground on her side, gasping as the air left her. Lady d’Organa was screaming her name. Pavo di Damerone was rallying his cavalry, and she got to her feet, clutching her skirts up, and started to run back to the gate, mindless of anything else but her focus on stopping di Fumoso.

“Lady! Lady!” A guard was shouting her name, and she saw— Pinno, her friend, wielding a spear. “Lady!” She could not outrun that horse, not even if she had not been in a condition that hobbled her movement, and Renata came to a gasping halt, giving up.

“Stop him!” she screamed, pointing to the cloth of gold and desperately hoping he would understand. “Pinno, _stop him_!”

He did not hesitate: Pinno drew his arm back, judged the distance, and threw the spear. It sailed through the air like a thunderbolt and met its mark: the haunches of the poor horse bearing the Duke. The mare bellowed in agony and crashed to the ground, pinning the man beneath it as it thrashed. Renata hoped it had killed him, and turned—

The woman in silver had seen the spear’s throw, and was advancing on Pinno. “Traitor!” she screamed, and brought her blade down against Pinno’s own. They began to fight in earnest, and Rei ran for her life: there was blood on the gravel, the dirt drank it up greedily, and there— there was Grandfather’s head, all alone, staring up at the sky with an expression of boredom, the eyes rolled back and the mouth gone slack. 

She knew she should not have felt grief: yet she did. Tears blurred her eyes, and she fell to her knees there by the corpse, forgetting all the battle and able to run no longer. Her ring felt cold and heavy as a body. _Nonno, oh, Nonno; I only ever wanted you to love me._

* * *

Pinno was fighting for his life. La Fantasma was a taller woman than he, and an experienced fighter: he had never met such a match before. Every blow drove him back a step, and every step he gained he lost again. Sweat was pouring down his back and exhaustion was creeping up on him as she swung down for another blow. 

“Traitor of a Moor,” she spat, pale eyes gleaming. 

“Gladly a Moor,” he gasped, “never a traitor.” His blade cut her face, blood welling from a cut along her bone-pale cheek.

Enraged, she lifted her blade, and Pinno slipped his footing, stumbling. Fear shot through him: _I am going to die—_ she began to bring it down—

A spear burst through her chest, and a gurgling cry mingled with blood broke past her lips. She toppled to the ground, and thundering hoofbeats filled Pinno’s ears as the rider on the horse leaned down, extending his hand. “Up!” he shouted. “Up with you, Pinno!”

 _It is the angel Jibrail, come to make war on God’s enemies._ Pinno reached up blindly and grasped a firm hand, and found himself hauled up on a saddle behind a man: not an angel, after all. “My lord di Damerone,” he panted, grasping the man firmly about the waist as he urged his charger away from the fray, toward the city. “I thank you.”

“Fear not: I shall get you safe away from this place,” he said, turning his head to make himself heard over the noise of battle. 

“No! I do not want to be safe. I want to fight!” Pinno shook his head vehemently. “Go back!”

Di Damerone sounded astonished. “Back! Why would you wish to go back?”

“I have a duty to God and to my conscience. Let me go back!”

“Duty? Then your duty you shall do. I will set you down behind our lines: get you a spear or sword, as you prefer, and come back to fight after you get rid of your clothing, else you are mistaken for an enemy.”

“There is no time!” Pinno shouted into his ear, and di Damerone laughed, then unclasped his own cloak with one hand as he wheeled the steed about with the other and cast it over Pinno’s shoulders.

“Then take my cloak to hide your stripes! And God be with you, Pinno!”

* * *

Solo drove his blade through another guard’s neck and kept his seat on Forzare. His heart was beating wildly, the blood running, and he was alive, alive, _alive._ His mother had escaped unharmed, and last he had seen, Renata was going with her: that was good. They would escape this bloody foray. 

_I have killed the Pope._ The magnitude of it had been almost too much to bear. His soul might be damned, but that did not matter: the Pope was dead, and would never touch the children Renata carried. He already bore a dozen wounds to his thighs, but his blood was up: he felt he could slay giants and run to the ends of the earth. Another man downed by his blade, another guard down. He did not know where Pinno was. He did not know what he was going to do after he killed them all, nor did he care: only the battle mattered— no, that was not right! One more thing mattered. _Renata must be kept safe._ Solo looked around for another foe, and spied a blot of crimson on the ground. Panic threatened to choke him: she was kneeling in the open, heedless of the battle raging about her. “Renata!” he bellowed, forgetting his foes, turning Forzare and setting him at a gallop over screaming men. “ _Renata! Up! Get up!”_

She turned a tearstained face to him, and he almost fell off the horse as he brought the animal to halt, struggling out of his saddle, storming his way to her as he caught her by the elbows and raised her to him. His spine prickled: it was not safe to be dismounted out here, and his back was to the fray. “What are you doing?” he barked. “Get back safe behind the line: you will be killed!”

“Beniamino,” she whispered, dazed, but life seemed to come back to her eyes as she looked at him. “His ring. Take his ring: the armies will have to follow you…”

“His ring,” he echoed, and knelt by the body, tugging the great golden ring with the seal of Saint Peter off the dead, still-warm hand. It felt heavy in his hand. “Go back to my mother,” he said. “I will take di Fumoso’s armies and—”

The gates opened, a roar of Genoese men pouring forth. Renata went pale. “It is too late,” she gasped. Solo did not hesitate: he lifted her up (she was heavier than he recalled) and set her on Forzare, thrusting the reins at her. 

“Go!” he ordered. “Go, ride!”

She stared down at him wildly. “I cannot leave you without a mount, you will be killed—”

 _“ _G_ o! _ _”_ he bellowed, and slapped poor Forzare on the rump so that the animal bolted, galloping off toward the city, away from the Leonine walls. Renata, twisting about and shouting his name, disappeared into the city. She was only a smear of red before he finally turned his attention to the oncoming army, unsheathing his blade. The Venetian cavalry was coming on to cut them off, but they were too far away: he would be overrun. It was all right. Renata was safe: she was going to be unhurt, and his children— his _children,_ he had fathered children, he was going to have children— they would be safe, too. He cared about nothing else. All was well, all would be well. Solo closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

_O God: into thy hands I commit my spirit. O holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now and at the hour of my death. Amen._

* * *

Pavo di Damerone, at the head of his charge, rode at full speed into the footsoldiers, knocking them aside like blades of grass. They were armored, but not well-equipped for a battle against cavalry, and his men and the fine mercenary _condottieri_ with Signore Schiocco overran them, trampling them, cutting them down. The joy of battle sang through his body: behind him, in the wake of the cavalry’s destruction, ran the army of d’Organa’s Romans: women armed with daggers and clubs, ragged men wielding hammers and blades, tongs and pokers. They ran down the army that di Fumoso had given the Pope, shouting their rage to the sky, as if with one voice they had all cried out for injustice to cease.

The winter wind snapped the banners to unfurl across the pale sky: d’Organa’s white on silver, di Damerone’s gold and brown. On the Tiber, however, Pavo could see Duchessa Stretta’s purple spear on white foundering, and saw that the Genoese navy was still coming about, a now-leaderless fleet firing on the stragglers. “To the Tiber!” he screamed, waving his sword. “The Tiber! To the river! Protect the shore!”

“To the river, the river!” The cry was taken up, and the whole of the cavalry moved past the walls, thundering down to the banks. 

* * *

Jannah clambered into a boat. She had changed into men’s breeches, and carried in her hand the banner of d’Organa, her resolve like iron. _Someone must command the ships: they have nobody left._ She had watched as the _Santa Caterina_ had sank from the shore, and knew at once that the Duchessa Stretta was gone to God: therefore someone who knew the fleet well must take up her mantle, and nobody else was more equipped than she.

“Get me to the nearest ship you can find!” she shouted, and the sailors, who knew her well from her time aboard counseling the Duchessa, did not question her: they rowed her to the closest galley, and thank God that the Genoese fleet had only small cannon! They had been hinging all their hopes on the _Supremazia_. The small cannon fired at her skiff, but missed, splashing into the water. By the time she climbed aboard the galley, she was soaked, but still clung to the flag. 

“Run this up!” she shouted at the nearest sailor, who did as she ordered. “I am Jannah, you know me well. I will command the fleet. Turn about broadside: fire at will!” The banner unfurled in the wind, and her order was shouted from boat to boat: all turned broadside, and Jannah clung to a rigging, looking out over the water as their cannon fired, striking the Genoese fleet. They were not being commanded at all, it seemed, since Bruttatesta had gone down with the _Supremazia_ : every man was for himself, but all of them were hell-bent on destroying the Neapolitan fleet. “Fire as oft as you can!” she screamed, and the cry went from ship to ship as Genoese cannon thundered, blowing splintered holes into the sides of their ships. Screams echoed over the water through the smoke as Neapolitan ships began to sink, and with them sank Jannah’s heart: this could not be how it would end. If the fleet came ashore, it would be over: they could blast cannon through the whole of the city and lay waste in an hour. _We are going to die._ It was a strangely calming thought, though she did not expect it to be. _I have lived my life in deceit so long, serving a wicked man… I will be glad to die as a woman, serving God._

Jannah’s damp hair lifted in the river-breeze, floating like a cloud about her face, and above her head, the smoke-stained banner twisted and blew north-east. _T_ _he wind is changing._

To the south, the smoke cleared. She turned, and saw ships sailing up the river-mouth: more ships, so many ships of diverse styles and builds they nearly choked the Tiber, and at the head of them was a caravel bearing a standard she did not know. It was not the yellow and black spear of di Fumoso, but a grey bird of some kind on a tattered blue and red banner: Jannah could not make it out. Were they friend, or foe? They were nearing the fray now, close enough to hear if she screamed: she scrambled to the aft deck and leaned out over the water, cupping her hands around her mouth and bellowing, “ _Hail! Who comes to Rome?”_ as loud as she could. 

A faint cry floated back, but it was too distant to hear over the cannon fire. Jannah watched as the caravel turned about with remarkable grace, exposing the broadside cannon: ten on one side. She fell to the deck in terror, and the cannon went off with a terrific thundering sound that shook her teeth and almost deafened her… but did not strike her ship. 

She looked up over the rail. Three Genoan ships were struck and taking on water, and as she gaped, not grasping the full truth, more cannon went off from the following fleet of ragtag ships: more Genoan ships foundered, and Jannah shouted orders for the Neapolitans to keep on firing, to not lose hope. Another great explosion took off a mast of a Genoan cutter, splinters flying wildly. Jannah shielded her eyes, and looked up as the caravel with the mysterious banner came alongside. “Hail!” shouted a man, waving over the rail. He was older, grey-haired, with a seamed, craggy face and kind eyes, and he wore a long dark coat, but no cap. “Hail, Naples!”

Jannah scrambled to her feet. “Hail!” she called back. “Name yourself, sir!”

He laughed and cupped his hands round his mouth to shout again. “Name myself! Indeed! You may tell that old Pope and his armies that Giovanni Solo and the _Falco Millenario_ have returned to Italy, and not a moment too soon, it seems!”

Jannah’s mouth fell open. The exploits of Giovanni Solo were as close to mythic as could be, and all had thought him lost for good: not even Lady d’Organa had hoped to see him again, yet here he was. “I am Jannah!” she called back to him over the water. “I command the fleet of Naples!”

“I know!” came the answer, “I was told of you—” and a face popped up over the rail, a beaming round face framed by black hair and a bright smile that Jannah recognized at once. 

_“ Alhamdulillah!_ Rosa!” she shouted, delighted. 

“No time!” Rosa yelled, pointing at the fleet. “Run them aground! _Đẩy chúng đi!!_ ”

The fleet headed up by Captain Solo’s _Falco_ advanced: many ships were Portuguese, some Moorish, but all were outfitted with cannon, and all were as deft and easily moved as a craftsman’s hands. The Genoese fleet ran aground or sank in short order, riddled with cannon-fire, and any unfortunate sailors who could swim to shore found themselves facing down the business end of Venetian steel, to surrender there or perish.

* * *

Renata walked in a daze along the field before the Leonine wall. She could see the river below, and on all sides lay the dying and wounded, crying and groaning for aid. Blood and smoke and upturned cold earth seemed to stretch for miles: her fingers were numb with cold. 

She had been told that Giovanni Solo had come ashore, embracing his wife: that the Papal armies had been routed, that the day was theirs. It felt like a cold victory, empty and void of joy— even with Pinno at her side, still streaked in blood from battle, but unhurt, carrying a short sword and wearing a borrowed cloak to hide his stripes, she could feel no happiness. 

There was a heap of armored bodies to her right. She viewed it impassively: there was nothing so glorious about war at all, not even in the name of God, and the empty, broken corpses still clutching weapons stirred no great thoughts within her. _Vanity of vanities, all is vanity._ Rei sighed and stopped at the pile, whispering a little prayer for their souls: may they find some rest somewhere, the poor men who had had no choice but to follow their lord to the mouth of Hell. 

She opened her eyes as the sun came out from behind a cloud, warming her neck, and caught a gleam of gold somewhere near the bottom of the pile. _Gold?_ She thought it odd that any footsoldier would have gold, but bent and looked closer.

“Lady,” said Pinno softly, “we must hurry back. Lady d’Organa awaits.”

“In a minute,” she answered, kneeling and reaching into the mass of limbs and metal and sticky, drying blood. The gold thing was deep in the pile, and when her fingers had closed round it, she tugged. It came away slow, almost stuck to flesh with blood, and she opened her fingers to see the great gold ring of Saint Peter’s seal, caked with drying gore, but unmistakable: she had seen it a thousand times on her grandfather’s hand, and had last seen it in the hand of...

Pinno stared. “Is that—”

“My _God_ ,” gasped Renata, struggling to her feet, “get these men off, get them away: Pinno, help me!” She tugged at a man’s arm, his dead corpse sliding away slowly, and Pinno leaped up and helped her drag them off the pile like so much cordwood. It was hard work; she had not known men could be so heavy, and her back and arms ached like fire. Some other men, Signore Schiocco and a few of his _condottieri,_ jumped to help, but even so, it seemed ages before the last men were dragged off and laid aside, and there lay Beniamino Solo, his left arm trapped under another man’s armor, his whole body, armor and all clothing drenched in blood, his broken and dented armor coated with it. Both eyes were shut, and his face was pale as death where it was not befouled with gore: his long hair trailed across it like seaweed. He still gripped his sword, his gloved fingers curled around the hilt.

Renata saw him and fell to her knees, pulling him to her with strength she had not known she had. “Beniamino,” she wept, cradling his head in her lap. Schiocco looked away, eyes downcast, and Pinno stepped back to afford her some privacy. She stroked his cheek, her tears falling into his cold, pale face. “My Beniamino, my sweet Cardinal— you are not allowed to die. Look, your children are here—” and she held his cheek to the curve beneath her skirts, still weeping. “Your father has come up the river, he is with your mother now. We have won the war; all is well. Beniamino, I beg you to wake. You cannot be dead. You cannot be dead.”

He did not move, or open his eyes, or speak as she held him. At last, Pinno knelt beside her. “Lady,” he said softly. “Lady, you must let him go.”

“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “No, he is so cold, and all alone: I cannot leave him here.”

“Then we will take him back to camp,” said Schiocco firmly, “and lay him among friends to be buried: friends he knew not he had, but friends nonetheless. Come, friend Pinno: we will take off all his armor to carry him with greater ease.”

Renata held him as they unbuckled the straps and slid the armor off his body. Once it had been removed, showing his clothing beneath, she could see that he had sustained many wounds: a halberd had gone into the meat of his arm, his thighs were soaked in blood, and a deep wound in his side had drenched both shirt and surcoat. Pinno and Schiocco lifted him, and Renata stood and followed them back to the encampment, forcing herself to take another step and another as they brought him to the bier where the dead lay in repose.

There were some of Schiocco’s men, good riders all— there, so many sailors pulled from the Tiber who would never go home to Naples, and there (the sight made Renata choke on tears) lay the Duchessa Stretta, her graying hair wet with river-water. _The poor lady: she never knew we won the battle, and I never met her as I desired to._ They laid Solo down carefully. Evening was coming on early: the fires were already bright, and Renata looked up into the golden dusk, wishing she might sleep for a thousand years. 

There was no time for that, however: she must go and speak to d’Organa and all the rest to tell them all she could, and then someone must decide what was to be done, but it would not be her— thank God for that. She bent down and pressed a kiss to Solo’s cold lips. “You shall be with me always, even to the end of the world,” she whispered softly, and crossed herself before turning away, blind with fresh tears.

* * *

She had just stepped foot into the great tent when a cry went up, and she found herself assailed in a warm embrace by Jannah and— Rosa! “Rosa?” she gasped, shocked out of her grief for a moment. “Is it you?”

“It is,” said Rosa, beaming. She was dressed in fantastic clothing, nothing Italian at all of her looks remained: a pair of billowing silk trousers, a man’s coat, and a short chemise were all the clothing she wore, and she had never looked so happy. “Oh, I have so much to tell you, Rei! Tell me, have you seen the Cardinal? When I left, he was in such dire straits, and— why, what is the matter? You are weeping.”

“He is dead,” managed Renata, wiping her eyes. “We— we found his body on the battlefield, he died fighting a score of Pope’s men.”

At the table, Lady d’Organa went pale and sank into her seat, mouth a firm line of resolve as Giovanni Solo reached for her hand. “And who are you, lady?” he asked, eyeing her with confusion.

“I am Renata di Palatine; I am— I was the Pope’s granddaughter,” she answered, half sick with weariness and grief. Captain Solo’s eyes widened in amazement.

“The Pope’s men, you said?” asked Rosa, shocked. “Then he— he escaped, and fought with the forces of the lady d’Organa?”

“No, Rosa,” said the lady in question, rising and putting a bloodstained cloth down: she had been attending to her toilette, and blood still engrained itself into her nails and clothing. “No: he was made Captain-General of the Papal Armies, and rode out to meet us for a parley— then he saw Lady Renata, took the Pope’s head off with a single swing of his blade, and that started the battle. I have never seen anything like it.” She looked exhausted, and older than Rei had ever seen her look.

“That sounds like my son, and no mistake,” said Captain Solo, gruff and tender, rubbing at his eyes.

“The Duca di Fumoso…” Rei said nervously. “Does he live?”

“As dead as the Pope,” said Captain Solo, looking up. Rei felt at ease with this fatherly man: he seemed gruff and coarse, but kindness shone in his reddened old eyes. “I saw his body myself trampled into the mud and ran it through with a pike to make certain: his neck was broken when he fell from his mare.”

“That is good,” said Renata faintly. She could think of nothing else to say. “I… I am so sorry, _signore,_ that you sailed all this way to find your son dead.”

“Yes,” said Giovanni, running his hand across his brow. “As am I. Where have you put him—the body?”

“On the bier, outside where they all lie— the Duchessa Stretta and all those,” answered Renata. “He was clinging to the ring I told him to take before he was set upon— this one,” and she put the papal seal into the hand of Lady d’Organa. “It was on his finger, and I saw the gold through the pile of dead men: that was how I found him.”

D’Organa raised it and looked at it, then set it down. “A mercy that he was brought back, and not left there.” Her voice trembled, and Giovanni stepped over, embracing his wife as she began to weep in earnest. Renata looked down, feeling as if she was intruding on something private that nobody ought to see. 

“We will go and see him,” said Giovanni softly. “He will not be buried without our farewell, Leah: I swear it.”

“So then,” said Leah d’Organa, trying to pull herself back together, “we have several hundred dead— we must do something about all the bodies.”

“They ought to be buried,” said Renata. “Away from the city, I think.”

“Too much work, and too much of a chance of plague. Burn them,” Giovanni said gruffly. “Cart them to a hill somewhere and be done with it.” In the corner, Cadella studiously wrote down what he said on a scrap of parchment: her quill was bent, but it worked just the same.

“The city will have to be rebuilt,” said d’Organa. “We can use the money from the Treasury to do that: we ought to look at new candidates for Pope, as well. What happened to all those Cardinals? Are they still inside, locked up and hiding?”

“Likely,” said Rei. She felt very faint, and realized she had not eaten all day. “You must forgive me, Lady d’Organa. I am not feeling well.” The tent seemed to tilt, her vision seemed to water and falter, and then she was falling forward, directly into Jannah, who grasped her firmly.

“What is the matter with her?” asked Giovanni, alarmed as Renata slid down to the floor. 

“Oh, nothing,” said Leah acerbically, “she is only carrying your _nipoti_ , my dear husband.”

 _“Nipote_ _?”_ shouted Giovanni, delighted, and got Rei into a chair with such gentleness that she was astounded, then turned, rummaging about for food. He found olives and bread from some nook and handed it to her. “Eat, eat, you must eat— wait— did you say _grandchildren,_ or _grandchild?”_

“Twins,” said Cadella from the corner without looking up as she wrote. “At least, that is what the midwife said.”

 _“Twins?_ _”_ Giovanni almost dropped the cup of watered ale he was pouring for Renata. “God in Heaven, this is a day like no other. Drink this, child— yes. I lose my son to the arms of Heaven and gain a daughter, and two grandchildren into the bargain, all in a day.” Tears were streaming freely down his seamed old face, and he loudly sniffed, then rummaged in his pockets for a handkerchief. “What a wife to have for my son, ah? Nerves of steel!”

“They were not married, Gio,” said Leah, rubbing her temples with a hand. 

Giovanni scoffed. “Oh, to Hell with that. Married, not married; it is all the same to me. You know that. God, look at me, eh? I do not know if I should weep or rejoice, so I do both at once.”

“You ought to rest,” said Cadella softly as she came up to her elbow. “Rosa’s tale can wait. Someone will take you back to the Palazzo Bianca.”

“I will not go without seeing Solo again,” she told them, feeling more resolved with food in her belly. “With your leave, _signore_? Lady?”

“I will go with you,” said Giovanni, extending his arm to her. “You must take care with yourself, and go lightly.”

“And I,” said Lady d’Organa, sounding as if she might weep again, “will go with you both. I want to see my son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- of course I had to have a "jacket borrowing" moment in here with Pavo and Pinno, gosh  
> \- What Rosa shouts in Vietnamese is basically "GET THEMMMM"  
> \- the fact that Stretta had PURPLE on her banner means she was loaded as hell. fun historical fact for you of the day: the reason no country flags have the color purple is because purple dye was expensive as shit back in ye olden days when all the flags were being made  
> \- "nipote" and "nipoti" sound VERY similar, but the first is singular and the second is plural: grandchild vs grandchildren. Hence poor Captain Solo's delight and confusion.


	20. Chapter 20

Jannah sat eagerly at Rosa’s side in the tent as Cadella set her quill down and joined them. “You must tell me all that has passed since you got out of Rome: I can hardly believe you did it.”

“Oh,” said Rosa, blushing, “well— has anyone seen Pinno? He was the one who got me out safe, and I owe him a great debt.”

Cadella raised an eyebrow. “He is running about with the Venetians helping to clean the battlefield: he will come in soon.”

“Yes, do tell us!” insisted Jannah. “Pinno can wait!”

“Very well: I shall tell you.” Rosa leaned forward. “I escaped out through the secret passages, and got myself out far away— I had been treated harshly by the questioners inside the Vatican, and I did not wish to come near Rome again unless I must. Well, I got all the way back to Ostia, and the harbor there— then I thought that I might do something useful, and asked a merchant for passage to wherever he was going, and he let me aboard in exchange for laundry duties: I was fortunate indeed. Well, we reached the third port of the voyage, which was in Lisbon, and who do you think I saw?”

“Captain Solo?” asked Jannah.

“The very same: I heard someone speaking Italian over all the Portuguese, trying to get a better bargain for silks from the East he had brought back, and chased him down, and told him at once that he ought to listen to what I had to say, and told him everything I knew of the war— well, he listened, and what’s more, he went round the port and told everyone who would listen that they ought to come along and if they did _not_ come along then he would make sure they never got his goods again, and oh, I have never seen a fleet assemble faster. Then, of course, it was almost a month to sail here, but it was ever so enjoyable: he said I ought to be a sort of first mate, for I had a good head for sailing and numbers and repairing broken things, and asked a thousand questions about his wife, and the war, and his son.” Her face fell. “I am sorry to hear that the Cardinal is dead. He was in such despair when I left, and in such pain… I cannot think it was a mercy that he died, but oh, Jannah, the poor man’s spirit was crushed.”

“That is what I am given to understand,” said Jannah. “Meanwhile, you have been cavorting about on the sea, and I have become a commander of fleets, Cadella has learned to write and read, and Renata has fallen with child: it truly is a year for miracles.”

Cadella blushed where she sat. “There is no miracle where conceiving a child is concerned,” she said primly. “And I intend to be the very finest scribe—”

The tent flap opened. All three women turned about, seeing Pavo di Damerone and Pinno standing in the doorway, outlined by the bonfires burning in the camp. Both men were filthy and stained in blood, and exhaustion lined their faces, but Pinno’s eyes went straight to Rosa. “They said you had come with the Captain,” he said faintly, breast heaving. The sweat on his brow gleamed like silver, and from the look in those warm, dark eyes, there might be nobody else in the entire world but Rosa.

“I did,” said Rosa, eyes wide and lips parted. Cadella and Jannah exchanged glances and stepped back as quietly as they could. “I did. I… I brought the fleet, you see. Or I helped: Captain Solo truly brought the—”

“You brought them,” Pinno echoed, stunned. He took a step. “I thought I would never see you again, Hoa. I prayed for you…”

“Pinno,” she said, voice catching in her throat. She stood, and Pavo lowered his gaze. “I promised you a kiss, a long time ago: I owe it in full payment, with—with usury.”

“You—” and he had crossed the distance between them in a single staggering rush, cupping her head in his large hand and pressing his mouth to hers in a tangle of battle-filth and stained clothing and silk and hair. She sighed into his mouth, and he seemed to forget that there were three others in the tent: Pinno backed her into the table with the map of Italy, and lifted her up to sit on it. All the pieces went clattering across the wood, and Pavo beckoned quickly to Jannah and Cadella, who were blushing fiercely. 

“Come,” he said softly, leading them out. “We will let them be alone: he did me a good turn once, so now I must do it for him.”

“I shall not be able to keep up with the number of babes conceived, if this sort of thing continues,” said Cadella, looking down at the grass. “In fact, I feel left out: everyone is getting kissed but I, it seems.”

“Oh?” said Pavo, eyes gleaming. “And you, good Jannah, are you also feeling omitted?”

She waved him off, grinning. “I only feel tired, my lord di Damerone.”

“Very good,” he said, and bent down, kissing Cadella on the cheek. “There: you are kissed.”

“For shame,” said Cadella, flushed to the roots of her fair hair. “I ought to write to Bibi, and then what will you do?”

“Alas! I had forgot, you are now possessed of such power!” Pavo pretended to look horrified. “I beg you, fair Cadella, write not: I shall do anything you ask.”

Jannah laughed aloud: it felt so strange to do such a thing at the end of a battle, but she laughed anyway. “Get us to a bed and let us sleep, and we shall consider your debt paid in full,” she teased.

“Of course, of course: I shall take you to the Palazzo Bianca,” said di Damerone. “Come along, ladies: the night is coming on fast, and we have much to do tomorrow.”

* * *

The evening had stretched its deep blue shades across the smoky sky by the time Lady d’Organa, Captain Solo, and Renata reached the biers where their fallen dead lay. The bonfires were burning bright, and cast black shadows across the torn ground. It smelled like gunpowder and iron, like cold death and the reek of war, and Rei thought she might be glad to go back to her room in the Palazzo Bianca, wash herself clean, and sleep… and yet she had one last farewell to make, and soon, for come the morning, all the dead triumphant would be burnt, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. 

With his father on her left side and his mother on her right, Rei approached the bier where Solo lay. In the warm golden light, he could have been sleeping: someone had washed his face clean. Giovanni made a sound in his throat as if he had been mortally wounded and staggered forward, kneeling at the bier and looking down into his son’s still face. 

“My boy,” he croaked, voice gone rough. He no longer looked like a great sea-captain; he only looked like an old man, drawn and aged by grief, and somehow Renata knew that when he was looking at the bier, he was not looking at a great grown man drenched in blood with long locks of dark, silver-shot hair and a scarred face— rather, it seemed he was looking at a little boy of perhaps six, with big ears and the sweetest smile in all the world. Her throat caught in a sob, but she fought to restrain herself: she must let them see him before he could be hers for a moment more. 

Lady d’Organa looked down at him. Her face was wet, but it could have been carved from stone. “You say he died fighting the Pope’s men?”

“He did,” Renata whispered. “You can see the wounds he bears, and besides that Pinno has told me he suffered mightily at the hands of the Pope.”

“Yes,” said d’Organa. “Yes, I can see it.” She knelt at her husband’s side and stretched her hand out, stroking Beniamino’s brow, his high and hollow cheeks. “He always thought I did not care for him,” she whispered, her voice catching and breaking. “He thought I wanted other children to take his place; he doubted himself constantly, he thought— he thought—”

“I know what he thought,” said Giovanni gruffly. “He was wrong on all counts. Do you remember when he was… learning to walk, and crashed headlong into a table?”

Leah laughed through her tears. “How could I forget? You were sure he would be killed, and held him for an hour after. Do you remember how sure you were that his first word would be _papa_ , and after all that work and goading, he said—”

 _“ Boat,”_ said Giovanni as she did, and they both choked back laughter, then Leah put her head on her husband’s shoulder and began to weep as he held her. Renata drew back a little, tears running down her cheeks: so this was what a true family looked like, what love ought to be— here were a mother and a father weeping for their child. _Did mine weep for me, when I was taken?_ She could hardly bear it. It was not fair: he had died not knowing his family was so close, nor that they loved him. “How have I lived to see my son grow old and die?” wept Giovanni hoarsely, his hands clasping his wife. “I should rather have died in his place, on the Tiber.”

“Hush,” whispered Lady d’Organa, weeping herself. “Oh, my heart, my own dear heart.” Leah bent and kissed her son’s brow, and Giovanni took a moment to silently bow his head, his hand on Beniamino’s breast, before they stood and moved away. 

“You must say your farewell now,” said Giovanni, not unkindly, his eyes red and his voice rough. “We shall stand aside, so you may speak to him; they say the souls of the departed watch and linger until all has been laid to rest, do they not?”

Renata felt a chill trail up her back, and stepped close to the bier, kneeling as if at prayer. “I thank you,” she said, looking up at the man: and she now saw Beniamino’s features in that face— the pleasant mouth, the fine jaw, the strong nose, carved out by firelight. “I… I will speak to him, if he can hear me. Do not trouble yourselves. I can find my way back to the Palazzo Bianca alone.”

“We will return to the tent: there is still much to be done,” said Lady d’Organa gently, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Go and rest when you are ready, dear child.” Giovanni Solo kissed her cheek, and they took a last look at their son before moving away together, the lady leaning on her husband’s arm. 

Renata turned back and looked down into Solo’s face. He almost looked young again, as she had first seen him in his church when she had given confession— how long ago that was! The light had washed some of the hollows and lines from his face, and in death he was composed, soft as sleep. She reached out and gently ran her fingers through a stray lock of hair. It was caked with blood and brittle, dry; no longer the soft dark mane she remembered. “You have let your hair grow long,” she said aloud, looking down at him. “You always kept it from touching your collar, and now you look like some prophet of old, like Moses, or Abraham. If you were to be buried properly, in a church, I would cut it for you so that you might look your best, and save a lock to wear always, but I have not the time, my dear Beniamino, and you… you are to be all burned to ashes when the sun rises.” 

The thought made her throat go tight, her face grow hot with grief: all his soft dark hair, his sweet smile that she had treasured, though he had only ever given it to her once, his dark eyes that could be so hard and yet so gentle, his strong hands— all would be burned away, never to be seen again. “You will not even have an effigy,” she went on, reaching for his hand. The fire had warmed it: she could nearly believe him still living. “It is a shame: you ought to have the finest tomb in all Rome, with a hundred Masses said every day for your soul… but perhaps it is better like this, out under the fine sky.” She wiped her eyes with her other hand. “They are going to burn all the dead together out by the river: you will be among friends, and see the Tiber, and your ashes shall go out into the wind and the water and the sea— you will travel to distant lands like your father, you see, so it will not be all bad. And summer will come, and you will hear all the birds. They will wake up singing, and the sun will shine hot on the fields. And in the autumn— in the autumn, you will have two children, if God is gracious.” Renata pressed his limp, heavy hand to her belly, tears blurring her sight: as if they knew their father’s hand, one of them kicked sharply, then the other, bumping and sliding from side to side. 

“You see?” she whispered, reaching for his still face with the other. “They are strong, like their father—and if you were here, you would say ‘like their mother’ and then I would blush like I used to. And you… you would call me your sweet Rei again, and—I know, I know you lied and said you did not love me that last night. I know now it was a lie: I know you said it to drive me away and keep me safe.” She could hardly speak for weeping. “I forgive it all, I forgive you, I would let you say you hated me a thousand times if only you would be with me, alive and whole, for I love you.” Rei bent her head and wailed aloud, still clasping his hand to her belly as the fires flickered, bright and warm as life. “Oh, God and the Holy Virgin, I beg you for a miracle—bring him back to me. I pray you all in Heaven to hear me. I pray it by every saint and my own soul—please, _bring him back_.”

The minutes crept on. He did not move. There would be no miracles today: her dear Cardinal was lost to her forever, and Renata drew her head up at last. She bent over and kissed him as tenderly as she could on his cool lips, fighting to keep her composure as tears dropped onto his still face. “I shall see you again in Heaven,” she whispered, and put his hand back on his breast, folding them neatly one over the other. Dimly, she remembered how she had thought once he would have looked more handsome in armor and doublet instead of a cardinal’s cassock, and shut her eyes against the terrible irony of it all: how much rather she should see him alive in his vestments then dead in a surcoat? “Go with God, my Beniamino.” She stood unsteadily, looking down at him: she must remember his face, even to the day she died. More tears streamed down her cheeks, and she turned away from the dancing flames, looking into the dark as his still face imprinted itself upon her memory for ever.

“I will go and rest now,” she said wearily, and began to walk away from the fires, down the hill into the dusk.

* * *

_I have died._

_I am about to die._

_I am still dying._

There was nothing in this strange place between life and death: he could feel, smell smoke and blood, but it was as if from a far-off place, where nothing could truly touch him. He kept drifting between places, from consciousness to sleep, here and there: every breath was a struggle, every moment like lead weighing on his body. He felt no fear, only acceptance of the inevitable.

_I will die._

_I am going to die._

He had vague recollections of being lifted, being moved: voices he thought he knew, voices he did not know. There was pain, distant and numbed: he had forgotten why he was in pain. _Let me sleep._ He thought he heard his father and mother speaking gentle words, and that was truly a kind dream from angels sent to him as he died: his father had not been seen in years, likely lost at sea, and his mother would never welcome him home, not after the letter he had written her. _Confessed, I confessed. All those innocent Jews, all my sins, all my dark and filthy deeds._ Something was touching his brow, a gentle voice speaking, and he could not remember whose it was: only that it was someone dear to his heart. 

He felt movement against his palm, small and warm, and the voice he knew he loved said _they are strong like their father._ There was no strength to understand any more as the voice went on, but he heard weeping, and then words of forgiveness, and words of love. 

Forgiveness and love: it must be a mistake. He did not deserve either: not he, not a broken man who had sinned against everyone he had known. Even a thief crucified… and his head began to spin, the smell of smoke acrid in his nose. Was it Hell? _Mercy cannot be shown to me, but blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy. Was I merciful?_

There was a light, as from far off: it was warm and golden and inviting, and he thought he saw an angel. _I am dreaming. I am having a vision. It is all a vision: no one could forgive me._

_I am about to die, still dying, dead._

The movement pressed across his palm again as something soft and warm touched his mouth, and wetness fell in drops on his face. _I shall see you again in Heaven_ , said the soft voice, and his hands were moved. He could not gather the strength to speak. _Go with God, my Beniamino._

 _Yes,_ he thought as he sank into darkness, _yes, that is my name. Rei called me so._

_Rei._

Memory came back in fleeting images, chasing off the suffocating blackness, and with it, more pain: Renata in scarlet, the horse, the mud, the swords and smoke and battle. _She is carrying my children. She carries them now._ Surely then it had not been a vision: that warm movement across his hand had been… his children, alive, kicking in their mother’s womb. 

_My children. My children, my sweet Rei—_

Terror overtook him suddenly, a fear that had not been there before at his death: he would die and never see his children, nor Rei again. _I cannot die. I cannot die!_ He tried to pull a breath into his weak lungs, and could not: he tried again, and a sharp, bright agony shot through his body, but air was pulled in. _Yes! Yes! Wake, wake: the pain means you are alive!_

Solo forced his eyes to open. His eyelids felt like iron, like lead, like a millstone. The sky above was deep dark blue, the stars coming out, and a fire was burning to his left, heating his skin. Where was Rei? “Rei,” he tried to cry out, but his voice was gone, lost to weakness and the inability to breathe. A sad, weak croaking gasp came from his throat instead, and he forced himself to roll to the side. 

She was walking away, into the dark. He could see the deep crimson of her gown, smoke-stained: she was a blot of life-blood in all that night, and he sucked another breath into his lungs, groaning in pain: she must hear him, she must. “Rei!” he thought he shouted, but it was only a whisper, as weak as the wind. Try as he might, he could not get a breath: something cracked in his lungs when he tried, something was pressing, bursting, agony in his breast.

He reached out a hand. It was crusted with blood in the nails: he stretched out and rolled and fell off the bier he was on, but his legs did not obey him. He could not get to his feet. He reached for the earth with his other hand and clawed a handful of earth, pulling himself forward with his fingers inch by laborious inch: then the other hand again, another inch. _Rei. Rei. My Rei._ His head was spinning: he could not breathe. He saw bright sparks in his vision, and the red gown was disappearing into the night: life was leaving him. _No, I must not die, not now…_

Another dogged handful of earth, another few inches scraping under his breast: the pain was so great that he thought he might rest, if only for a moment, here on the ground. _Only a moment, then I will go on. Only… only a moment._ Something warm was spreading under his chest: it felt like a gentle embrace. He laid his cheek in the dirt, watching the scarlet blur disappear from view, and only then did he close his eyes at last, heedless of the cries that surrounded him. He could not breathe at all. It hurt, it hurt so badly, but it was all fading now.

_I fulfilled my vow. I saw her one last time before the end: I brought justice._

Darkness descended on him, and he knew nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing.

* * *

_“He lives! He lives!”_

The cry went up, catching like wildfire as men began to run to see: someone had found a dead man crawling off his own funeral bier, senseless in the dirt, his own blood pooling beneath him. The shout was raised from man to man: “He lives! It is Solo, it is he who was Captain-General: someone get a physician!”

He was lifted up, stripped of his clothing, and a physician came at once to listen to his breathing and look at him: only near death, not dead, by God’s grace, and his wounds were washed and closed, his mother running as she had not run in years to the tent where he lay when she heard. Giovanni Solo, who had run like a madman at the outcry from the tent with his wife, stood stoically by, holding Lady d’Organa’s hand as the physician muttered about punctured lungs and thrust a reed into his son’s side, letting out a thin, high whistle of trapped air so that he could breathe, and as the man was sewing up the last wound in his thigh the tent-flap opened and Renata di Palatine, still dressed in the crimson gown she had worn all day, came stumbling in, face as white as milk: she had run all the way from the house back to the camp at the news.

“When he is ready, I would that you might have him moved to the rooms I am lodged in,” she said in a voice as stern as steel without any other greeting. “I want him by my side: I will tend to him myself.”

“You must sleep, Renata,” said Lady d’Organa gently, “you are with ch—”

“If you say I am with child once more I will scream until I am hoarse!” shouted Renata, whirling about. “I am with child! _His_ children! I have lost him twice over already and I will not do it again; he stays with me in the Palazzo Bianca!”

Giovanni put a hand on his wife’s arm. “Let her care for him,” he whispered softly. “Leah. We can all stay there if you like. I will sleep on the floor in the hall on a pallet if I must.”

“Very well,” said d’Organa, relenting. “He has suffered a wound to his lung: the reed must be left there so that he can breathe until the wound heals.”

“And the legs have been hampered greatly: tendons have been bruised and torn, muscle cut deeply. It will take time to heal: he may walk again, but not soon— not within the fortnight, or some time after.” The physician set aside his needle and thread. “When he wakes, he may have water and broth, and bread and milk only. Now I must go and tend to the others: farewell.”

When he had gone, Renata looked down at the body laid out on the table and caught her breath: he looked gaunter than she recalled, and there were scars on him she did not remember: burns, twisted ropes of wrinkled pink flesh that marred him from shoulder to ankle, pucker-marked scars, and bruises both old and new that mottled his alabaster skin in purple, green, crimson, and yellow. “I am glad,” she heard herself saying, “that he took off Grandfather’s head— that he saved me the trouble of doing it, for if I had seen this, I would have killed him.”

“No doubt you would have,” said Captain Solo amiably. “Well, let us get him to a bed, and then, praise God, we might all get some sleep at last.”

* * *

They laid him in her bed in the Palazzo Bianca. Renata sat at his side after she had changed for bed, waiting until they had all gone and left her alone with him, and after they had gone she lay down and wept for gratitude until she was exhausted: gratitude that he was alive, that he was with her, even for a moment more. _He might die in the night, and yet I would be grateful to God: I have more moments with him._

She sat up to take off her robe and lay down again beside him, on the right, so as not to disturb the reed that jutted from his left side. “Beniamino,” she whispered, laying her hand on his naked shoulder. “I am here: you have only to stir and I shall wake.” She wriggled closer, curling her body close so that her belly pressed close, nestled between them, and her eyes began to droop shut: she was young, and very tired, and the bed was soft. “My Ben…” she said, and fell asleep, cheek pressed to his arm.

* * *

 _Thirsty._ An all encompassing, desperate need for water filled every speck of Solo’s waking mind that was not occupied with the deep pain in his legs and his side and his chest: _I am thirsty, someone give me water. Water._ “Please,” he croaked, turning his head: the movement sent more pain shooting through his body, and he coughed, a wracking, dry sound. “Water.”

“Beniamino?” gasped a voice, and a face swam before his weak eyes: a cup was held to his mouth and he drank greedily, choking down water over a dry tongue and lips like dusty earth, cracked and hot. “Slowly, you must drink slowly, or you will be sick.”

He blinked, and swallowed, trying to work his throat to use again. Renata’s face looked down at him, anxious and worried. She was wearing a fine green gown with gold trim that he had never seen her wear before, and a linen apron was tied over her belly. “Rei,” he gasped.

“No, do not try to sit up,” she said, pushing him back down gently as he struggled to rise. “You cannot walk yet, the physicians said so. You have been wounded in the thighs, and elsewhere. Your lung has collapsed, he said, and so a hollow reed was put in—do not touch it, it will pain you.”

It made him dizzy to look at: that small thing jutting from his ribs. He looked away. “I am not dead,” he said thinly, looking at the room. It was a fine lady’s chamber, with high windows, and light streamed in from outside. 

“No,” answered Renata, “not yet. You have been sleeping for two days.”

“Two days!” he said, endeavoring to raise himself up again on his elbows. She pushed him back down again. “What— the war—”

“The war is won,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Your father made sure of that.”

“My father,” said Solo, trying to think. “I thought I had heard him speaking, but… I thought it was some dream. You mean… he is here? Alive?”

“Yes, he has been here for three days, and is helping your mother; there is far too much happening at the moment, and I have begged off any great councils, for I wished to be with you.” She went pink at the tip of her pointed little nose, and Solo’s heart swelled: she wanted to be with him: After all that had happened: what a miracle. “Besides that, I am in a delicate condition, and everyone keeps saying I ought to rest.”

“I…” His eyes went to her belly, and what he had thought at first glance to be the high cut of the waistline and billowing fabric was unmistakably the swell of an expectant belly. “You… you are with child.” So it had been true: not some half-memory, that gentle thumping against his palm. He raised a trembling hand toward her. “I… might I…”

“Yes,” she said hurriedly, and sat by his side, letting him rest his hand on her gown. “They are awake: they were kicking a moment ago. Only wait…”

He waited. He would have waited a thousand years to feel that again, and then— there! A kick against his fingers, and a second against his palm a beat later. Solo felt his eyes prickle hot behind their dry lids. “Twins?” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Yes. By now, of course, that is without question, else I would not be so great already.” Renata looked at him quickly, then back down. “You are not… are you glad of it?”

“Glad of it?” he said, choking up. “I am gladder of it than of anything in my life, God help me: if I were able to stand I would fall to my knees and weep for gladness. Did you think I would be angry?”

“I do not know,” said Renata, looking away in shame. “I thought… I thought at first perhaps, when I found out— oh, it was foolish of me to think such things. You had said you loved me not, when we parted, but I know now it was a lie to make me leave, to wound my heart, that I might not try to remain with you. Was it not?” Her eyes, hesitant and unsure, met his, and he could hardly breathe.

“It was a lie,” he said, firm and low. “All if it was a lie. You must know— you must have known that I loved you then, and I love you now, and I will love you until I die, whether that be tomorrow or in fifty years, and I would— I would never be parted from you again.” Rei began to weep in earnest, her nose beginning to run, and she held her apron to her face as she wept. He could not stop himself from going on. “You have seen my soul, sweet Rei, bared before you: I am an ugly and broken man whose hands are unclean, who did monstrous things, but God help me— should you desire me, should you love me as I am, I would… I would be your thrall, your servant for the rest of my days. I… I am no longer a cardinal, but I would be honored if you allowed me to be your counselor, in whatever house you choose to reside, for the rest of my days.”

Even through the tears, there was a smile on Renata’s face. “Servants, thralls, and counselors! I shall settle, I think, for a husband— it seems to properly encompass all three, does it not?”

He did not understand what she meant for a moment. Then, he did. “Husband,” he repeated, shaken to his soul: was it some jest? “You… you truly wish that I should be your husband?”

“Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes, “I have wished that since the day I made you laugh aloud in the Apostolic Court; since the day I first saw you mired in your own miserable penance. I do have some requests that you must promise before God to fulfill, however, before you accept my proposal.”

“Name them,” he said; he would grant her anything she wished, anything at all, even if it were to climb to the Moon and pull down all the stars for her.

She cleared her throat. “Firstly, that you must let me win two games of chess a month— secondly, that you come to my bed at least— well, I am not sure what the ordinary custom is among husbands and wives, but I think once a week ought to be fair. Thirdly, that our children be loved above all, and we never treat with them in cruelty or anger. Is that satisfactory?”

Solo closed his eyes. Tears slipped from under the lids, wet and hot. “It is,” he said thickly. “By all the saints, Rei— were I able of body, I would have taken you in my arms and kissed you already.”

“You will be well soon,” she said, reaching out to stroke his face: he leaned into her touch, catching his breath in a shudder. She was so warm, so soft. “And when you are well, we can be married at once, if you like.”

He could hardly dare to dream such a thing _._ “Where will we live?”

She shrugged. “Oh, anywhere. It seems the Pope left me all his estates and villas, but I only need one. He did not leave me any of his money, however— the old goat put into his will that all his money shall be inherited by my husband, whoever he may be.”

“So, were I to wed you…” Solo blinked, realizing the full meaning of her words.

“Yes, all the Pope’s money would be yours by right,” said Renata, smiling. Under his palm, the little feet kicked again— or perhaps that was a head, that solid lump sliding from his fingers to his wrist, and he smiled to feel it. “So you see, we shall all have enough money to live on, I think. I might sell the other estates to some holy orders. Perhaps your old Dominican brothers could use a new benefactor, since old di Fumoso is dead. Besides that, your mother has got back what was hers from the Treasury, almost in full, and I have heard the College is electing a new Pope tomorrow.”

“Who shall it be, I wonder?” he said weakly. 

“I care not a single whit,” she told him. “Do you want more water?”

“Yes, please.” Solo sipped it slow as she held the cup to his lips, her hand cradling his head. When the cup was drained, he lay back, sighing; the conversation had exhausted him. “I suppose we could not ask a priest to come and say a wedding-mass in the house today.”

“No,” said Renata, smiling, “you would fall asleep half-way through. Go to sleep, and I shall be here when you wake.” She bent down and kissed his brow, and he shut his eyes, more at peace than he had been these past ten years.

* * *

It was nearing evening when Lady d’Organa and Giovanni Solo knocked gently at the door, let in by Renata. Both were tired-looking, with drawn faces, but the lines seemed to fall away as their eyes cast down upon their son, who lay propped up in his bed with a linen bandage wound about his breast and a reed jutting from his side, wearing a long linen smock that covered his modesty, if not much else.

“Mother,” he said hoarsely, his eyes going straight to hers, and flickered over, wet and full, in a quick movement to his father’s face. “Father—” His voice broke, and Leah rushed to the bed, sitting down and seizing his hands in hers as he began to weep outright in ragged, hoarse sobs. 

“Oh, my Beniamino,” she whispered, stroking his hair, “hush, hush: it is all well once more, and we are all of us alive and together again.”

He could not speak, only wept. His hands were trembling so badly that he could not do anything but bury his face in them, hiding it as his shoulders heaved with wracking sobs, and Renata wanted to stand back, but could not: how could she, when he was in such pain? She went to his other side and pressed her hand to his shoulder, murmuring gently.

Giovanni reached into his pocket and pulled out a little item, turning it over in his hands. “When last I— was in Italy,” he said roughly, looking everywhere but at his son, “I promised to bring you something in my letter.”

Beniamino wiped his eyes with his shaking hands. “A treasure from the farthest ends of the world,” he said, trying to contain his breathing. “Yes. I remember.”

“Well, I looked far and wide,” said Captain Solo. “And no matter how I looked, I could find nothing suitable for my son, not until a man near Cape Non gave this ruby to me in exchange for a bolt of Chinese silk.” He held out the thing in his hands: it was a precious stone the size of his thumb, dark red and gleaming like blood in the light of the lamps. “I thought it was a fitting gift for Cardinal Solo, my learned son of whom I was so proud… but now, I think, it should belong to no Cardinal at all, and only to a man called Beniamino, who did what he knew was right, though he thought he had not the strength and nearly died in the attempt. What think you?”

Beniamino blinked, and tears spilled down his face as he caught his breath. “You… you were proud of me?” he stammered, looking up at his father. “I thought you w-wanted…”

“Oh, want this, want that,” said Giovanni, and waved a hand, wiping his own tears so as to hide them. “The Devil take what I want: I am old, and you are young, and must choose your life as you see fit. Of course I was proud of you, my son.”

“But you do not know what I did, in the name of faith,” he managed, shamed tears threatening to choke him. 

“I told your father all,” said Leah, squeezing her son’s hand. “Hush, now. All is forgiven, and we may begin to make things right— but first, I think, the latest of your sins ought to be made aright, indeed?” She cast a knowing eye on Renata with a wink, and Rei blushed, taking Beniamino’s other hand. “Keep the ruby, Ben. Consider it a wedding-gift.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said, exhausted from the effort of speaking, and sank down a little.

“We will leave you to sleep,” said Giovanni, bending down and kissing his son on the brow. “In the lady’s most capable hands, and from them, I think, not even the Devil could snatch you away.”

“I pray not,” muttered Solo, eyes already closed as they stood and made for the door. 

Renata let them go and came back to the bed, but he had already fallen asleep. She set the ruby carefully aside, and watched the rise and fall of his scarred, bruised chest: every breath was a gift, God be thanked, and every moment an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Pinno and Rosa absoLUTEly fucked in that tent.  
> \- Pavo, you goddamn player you  
> \- am i able to write a single thing without overusing m-dashes? no  
> \- i wanted to do a spin off of Rosa's Grand Adventures Around The World but alas NO TIME  
> \- ONE MORE CHAPTER!!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: pregnancy sex and oral sex, not rough!

**APRIL 30, 1493**

All the  _ nobili _ of Rome had gathered in the Basilica of Saint Peter to witness a wedding-Mass: a union between two fine old houses, and not a moment too soon, some whispered, smiling, for the bride seemed greater with child every day that passed, and knelt in her gown of gold silk at the altar, her head bowed and her hands pressed together. Besides that, what was finer than a great wedding to make hearts joyful after a war?

The bridegroom had come in, as straight and tall as he could stand while limping, leaning on a stick: he wore only somber black, with the exception of a rich cloak of blue velvet draped over his shoulder and a few gold ornaments, and clumsily stood at the altar with his kneeling bride: he could not kneel for the pain it still brought him. In the seats, his mother and father clasped each other’s hands and watched tears in their eyes, as the homily was read, the hymns sung, and Communion given: two hours, and all was over: Renata di Palatine and Beniamino Solo were wed in the eyes of God. 

They stood as one and turned, Renata’s hand resting on her husband’s, and if he faltered and her hand tightened on his wrist, nobody noticed at all.

* * *

In their chamber set apart for them in the Palazzo Organa, Rei undid her shoe-laces and sighed, kicking them off: her feet had begun to swell in the afternoons, and ached fiercely: she could not reach them with much ease by now, and wished Beniamino would come in to her. He had escaped to his own adjoining chamber, muttering about changing his clothes, and refused her offer of help, which had stung… but he was a man, and men had some pride, even men who had just started walking again one week past.

As if her thoughts had been heard, the door between their rooms opened, and Beniamino limped in, leaning heavily on his walking-stick. It was very fine, carved out of solid oak and tipped with brass, and thumped on the floor as he made his way in. “Wife,” he said softly, and did not look at her, but at the floor.

Rei paused in her undressing and looked at him. He had shaved his beard, but there was dark stubble on his chin and lip, and he had left his hair in the softly curling locks past his shoulders, having refused anyone leave to cut it short above the eyes in the fashions of the day, calling it vanity, and he had been very stern about it until the barber had left off: she suspected privately that perhaps he was not able to bear a blade so close to his head that was not held by his own hand. “Husband,” she answered, halfway through removing her gown. “Will you help me with the laces?”

“I will,” he said, and crossed the room in his stilted gait, sitting on a stool by her with his better leg bent and his worse one out straight, and reached for her laces with careful hands. Rei watched his eyes as he bent to his task, but there seemed to be no desire in his eyes, nor in his movements— he was undressing her, nothing more. 

Her gown fell aside, and she stood in her shift, easing down to sit on the bed. “My ankles are swollen terribly,” she said, wincing a little. “Kneeling for so long did not ease them.”

“No,” he agreed, “nor did it ease me to stand for so long.” Solo sat at her feet and tapped his thigh, leaning his stick against the bedstead. “Come, then: give me your feet, and I will ease your pain.”

“I ought to ease yours—  _ oh _ ,” she said, lying down on her back in bliss as his strong, careful hands took her ankles and began to firmly press the aches away. She rolled to her side in an attempt to take a full breath and groaned: it felt so lovely to be ministered to like this, and in a few minutes all the pain was gone. “Will you come to bed?” Rei asked, feeling bold.

His hands faltered, and when he spoke he sounded so toneless that she raised her head to look at him. “I… I do not think it would be…”

“What is the matter?” she asked, pushing herself up. “We are married.”

“I am not well in body,” he said haltingly, looking at the wall and not at her. 

“Nor am I,” said Renata, trying to bring humor to her voice. “Why, look at me: I have a belly the size of a boulder and feet swelling like ripe fruit.”

“What I mean to say is that—” Solo cut himself off sharply and swallowed, his eyes shutting. “I am lame, I could not walk like a man when I took your hand: what kind of a man can hardly stand to take his bride?”

She sat up in full. “You endured such trials to be able to stand today: the physician said that he had not thought you would be able to do it for another week. Do you think I would not desire to share your bed because of that?” A thought struck her. “Is it… is it me? Do you not wish to have me, now that I am with child? Am I— am I so repellent to you?” 

“What? No!” he answered, eyes finding hers, wide in surprise. “Not in the slightest: it is the opposite—I beg you to believe me when I say there is nothing I would love to do more than— than uncover you as you are, now, to see all the… all the sweet changes that bearing our children has bestowed upon you, Rei, but I cannot.”

“Why?” she asked, more puzzled than hurt. 

Beniamino shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, a dark flush drowning his cheeks. “I cannot—yet. I have not been able… in body, you understand, to— to— something of my virility has gone, and I do not know when it will return— apart from that, I cannot comfortably lie or stand in any way that will bring us both any pleasure in a bed.”

“Oh,” she said, looking away: that was certainly correct, as far as she knew— he could not put weight on his knees at all, nor bear it on his hips, nor bend his right leg more than a few degrees, and now she could see that his face was drawn and pale from the pain of the wedding Mass and standing for such a long time. “Then I shall not hold it against you. Will you at least lie in bed with me? There need be no pleasure in it, if you cannot—”

“I cannot,” he said, looking away again, humiliated. “I cannot perform my duties to you as a husband. Forgive me. Good night.” He stood clumsily, snatching up his stick, and made his slow, painful way to the door.

Rei watched him go, tears welling in her eyes, and lay down in her bed alone.

* * *

A month passed on, April to late May, and Rei began to dread her inevitable childbirth: her lying-in was supposed to begin in the end of July, and Leah had already commissioned a hundred infants’ things from tailors and craftsmen, carpenters and weavers. Renata did not know what was meant to be done with so many little gowns and caps and blankets and clouts: surely her children could never wear every one, but Leah insisted that she would be glad of the excess.

The Palazzo Organa had begun to serve as a sort of home for not only the d’Organa’s and Solos, but for the rest of their friends, who were working to better Rome: Leah often entertained guests and Cardinals of the College, and even the new Pope (Orgoglio, by Rei’s choice, styled Pope Gregory X— he was corruptible like any man, but at least he had tried to be kind, and would listen to advice when it was given), and Captain Solo often made trips from Palazzo Organa to Venice, where he had found a willing market for all his treasures brought from far away.

Rosa and Finn had gotten married, too: a small ring ceremony and all was well, but they had left Rome and moved to Venice to be near their friend the Doge. Rei saved all the letters they sent her, and wrote back as often as she could: she also wrote to Bambina, who had mysteriously been moved from Florence to Venice, too, and they spoke about all manner of things.

All this time, Beniamino still refused to come to her bed. Rei was lucky if he saw her in the mornings and greeted her with a dry kiss on the hand: he spent most of his days in seclusion, and nobody could not tell her what was wrong at all, for she could not discover it, and the servants began to exchange glances with each other, pitying the poor lady: married over a month and the wedding still unconsummated?

His mother even caught him on the stairs one day, and demanded to know why he forsook his wife’s bed in tones so loud that most of the servants heard, pressed their lips into shocked lines, and scurried away. “She loves you most dearly, my son: she moved Heaven and Earth for you, and you will not treat her as a true wife! What is the matter?”

“I do not expect you to understand, Mother,” he said coldly, gripping his stick with a white-knuckled hand, “as you are not a cripple: I beg you therefore to leave me be.”

So Leah did, in all confusion, and Rei still slept alone at night, feeling lonelier than she had ever felt as the children within her kicked her heartily and woke her seven times over in the night with the need to find a chamberpot. 

* * *

At last, in the middle of June, she could bear it no longer: she only had a month left before her lying-in, and from what all the ladies and maids said, twins might come early, and labor was a great trial. She might never wish a man to touch her again after it, not even her beloved husband, they all said in sage and knowing tones, and Rei was desperate to have him in some way, any way, whatever that might be.

Rei picked up the last letter from Bambina and read the lines over again, as she had for days since the letter had come:  _ There are acts, dear Rei, that one might do for a man’s pleasure and not for your own, if that is not minded: with hand and with mouth these things are done… _ Instructions followed, careful and straightforward, and she read them again and again, committing them to heart before she stood, resolve gathering in every sinew despite her apprehension:  _ I must have my husband truly, in any way I can. _

She wrapped herself in her robe and went to the door that joined their chambers. Without knocking, she went in silently, and halted in her step at the sight that met her eyes. Her husband, her beloved Beniamino, was lying prone on the cold floor before an altar and crucifix, back shaking with silent sobs, his walking-stick laid out alongside him, and he was praying in Latin, so softly she barely heard the words. 

“Ben,” Renata said, and he jolted up, shocked: his arms were strong enough to lift his body alone, and he did that, then rolled gracelessly to the side. “My God. What are you doing?” She endeavored to not sound accusing, only gentle, and he drew a ragged breath, then grasped his stick, hauling his body upright to stand.

“Praying,” he said, “for forgiveness.”

“And what have you done that needs forgiving?” Renata settled on the edge of the bed, her hand coming to rest on her belly. 

His eyes went to it, then back to her face, and he looked so miserable that she wanted to go to him, to hold him close. “I… I had a dream a week past,” he said, as if every word was agony. “I dreamt of you. And when I had woke, I had spilled my seed… and I have had such dreams since then, so I know I am no longer impotent, but— I still cannot perform my duties to you, not without great pain: I cannot stand alone and hold you, I cannot kneel and take you, I cannot do anything. It… I must see this as a punishment from God: for my sins of fornication, I cannot now partake in the joys of a marriage bed with my wife, nor am I forgiven.”

“Come here,” said Rei, and patted the bed. He limped to her and sat, leaving his stick leaning against the bed, his better leg half-bent and his worse one stuck out straight as he bent his head, looking away from her in shame. “My poor Beniamino,” she whispered, and reached up to stroke his hair. “Not for your infirmity, and not for your wounds, but for your spirit I pity you. Will you not tell me what it is you truly fear?”

His breath caught in his throat. “I— I am afraid,” he confessed, eyes flickering to hers, “that I— I will never be able to please you again.”

“You have hands,” she reminded him. “And a mouth. Or have you forgot?”

He shook his head sharply. “That is not—within a marriage, there ought not to be such acts—”

“What acts,” she retorted, slipping from the bed to sit by his feet, “these acts?” Her hands slipped up from his knees to his thighs, and she felt the hard muscle tense beneath the skin, beneath his clothes. 

“You— you ought not be on the floor,” Beniamino stammered, gripping the bedcovers in both hands. “You— Rei—”

“I shall be where I please, and it pleases me to sit here,” Renata said, and felt very daring and bold as she undid his chausses, loosening them from his doublet and pulling them down from his body. “And it pleases me to do this.”

“Rei,” he gasped, trembling as her hand found his flesh, already half-thick and willing, despite his protests. “Rei, it— it is a sin—”

“What, to spill seed where there can be no child borne?” She looked up at him, smiling. “By that reasoning, you could not do your proper husbandly duties to me now at all, for no child can be conceived while a woman is already seven months gone, and yet I hear no priest say that such intercourse is a sin: therefore you may spill anywhere you like, it is all the same in the eyes of God, no?”

“God have mercy,” he said, voice gone hoarse as she reached her hand down further and took hold of him gently at the root. “If women were priests—  _ Rei—” _

“Hush, now,” she said softly, and pressed a kiss to the scars at his waist. Beniamino choked back a little cry, and he was trembling under her mouth: she wanted to love him— to love him so much that he forgot pain for a moment. “Hush, and let me— let me do to you what you did to me, once.” His flesh was swollen, jutting out from the coarse hair between his thighs, blushing as red as his face was, and she closed her lips gently at the very tip. 

“ _ Rei, _ ” he choked, reaching for her hair, “Rei, Rei, oh, oh,  _ no, _ no…” but he was pulling her closer, hands shaking so badly she thought he might faint. He tasted of only clean flesh and a hint of some salty thing, like the sea: she took him further, and used her hand to cover the rest of him that she could not take. His thighs were shaking, his hips moving in desperate, yet weak thrusts, as if he was afraid to hurt her: she encouraged him on, suckling at him, moving her hand, and Beniamino’s cries turned to moans, soft and broken as he trembled beneath her.

When he spilled, hot and salty and strange on her tongue, she gasped, gulping at him. Her lips were wet with a mixture of her own saliva and his spend, and he clung to her hair still, breath leaving him in shuddering sobs. She worked him still, determined to give as much pleasure as she could, and when he began to go soft Rei let him go and rocked back between his knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking up at her husband.

He was weeping in silence. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping from his chin, and he could not even look at her: he untangled his fingers from her hair and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. “Hush,” she panted, wedging herself closer and resting her head on his knee. “Hush, my love, it is all right: we will find a way. You will see. Shh.” She stroked his thigh gently, her cheek pressed to his warm flesh. “My dearest heart: do you not know that you have nothing to be ashamed of? Has not God forgiven you already, and brought you back to me?”

“My wife,” he sobbed, wiping his wet eyes. “Oh, my wife, my sweet Rei—” and his hands went to her, pulled her up to him: she stood, clinging to his shoulders as he embraced her about her belly, his face buried in her billowing chemise. 

It took some minutes of gentle words, but his tears ceased, and he was only holding her close, his breath soaking hot through her shift. “Have I eased you?” she whispered down into his hair, stroking it softly.

“You have, and more besides,” he said, turning his face to look up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Come down here. Let me see my wife. Lie down; I would look at you.”

Rei gladly obeyed, coming to rest beside him on the bed and dropping her shift to the floor with some shyness as he, too, divested himself of the remainder of his clothing, then crawled up the bed, lying on his better side, and drank her in with eyes as golden-brown and heavy as summer honey. She felt too exposed, too big and ungainly: her breasts had swelled even greater in the past month and her belly felt like a heavy melon, the skin tight and flushed, angry scarlet marks adorning her sides. Rei tried to cover them with her hands. “Here is your wife,” she muttered, looking away, “a great cow.”

“No,” he said, taking her hands in his. “No: she is a beauty, and will ever be so. You have kissed my marks; now I must kiss yours.” With the greatest care, he slid down the bed, and pressed his mouth to her sides, soothing the tender, thin skin there with his tongue and lips. Renata shivered under his attentions, and even more so when he let his hands trail up over the swell of her belly, to cup her breasts: she remembered that when he had first done so, she had just fit in his great palms, and now she spilled through his fingers, the nipples gone broad, rosy, and plump, the pale flesh veined with blue like fine marble. “Oh,” he said, in a tone of awe, and moved himself back up, bringing his head close to kiss her throat. “Are they tender?”

“They were, in the beginning,” she managed, flushing: she was very wet, and he seemed to know it, his other hand was roaming between her thighs. “Now they are only… well, the skin feels very thin, and I hope they shall not grow much larger.”

Beniamino laughed, low and gentle against her neck. “No: you are near the end of your trial, my sweet Rei.” His hands roamed down, and his mouth pressed kisses into her breasts: she gasped a little at the feeling it brought her. “My sweet wife… bearing our children: all ripe and full and tender…” His fingers slipped between her thighs and she moaned aloud: she wanted him very much there. “And here, like fruit, soft and dripping and hot...”

“Ben,” she whispered, blinking away tears of happiness as his fingers delved in, thrusting gently, one and then two. “I have missed you. Oh, I have…”

“Never,” he said urgently, his hand speeding to its task. “Never, I will never shut myself away from you again: I swear it, Rei, dear heart, my sweet  _ principessa,  _ my bride, my glory, my—”

Renata found her release and let it wash over her: sweet warmth from head to toe, the delight in her body and soul like no other, tears of joy gathering to drip down her cheeks, and dimly she felt Beniamino curl around her stiffly, his warm arm resting at her side, his hand spread out against her belly. She opened her damp eyes after a time, and looked at him: eyes half-closed, arms scarred with old wounds and burns, the deep, twisted indents in his thighs that spoke of muscle that had not healed— that might never heal. She saw the silver threads in his dark hair, the peaceful softness to his face that spoke of near-sleep, and the lines of pain that had relaxed there. “We will find a way to love,” she whispered, stroking his cheek and tucking her head beneath his chin. In answer, he sighed deeply and pulled her closer, his arm draped across her close and snug. “We always have, and we always will.” She wiped her cheeks dry.

“God be praised,” he mumbled, half-asleep, “for a stubborn wife.”

“And for a loving husband,” she said in response, and he gave a low chuckle deep in his throat. They fell asleep together there, curled around each other: the stars in the sky curved around a waxing moon, and all of Rome slept with them.

**1497**

The villa had stood in Ostia for more than two hundred years. It had been owned by the old Pope, the dreadful one, and everyone had passed by it suspiciously for some time after the war, making the sign to ward off the evil eye: nobody had wanted to go near it until the lady Renata and her husband Signore Solo, who, rumor had it, was going to be the Duca d’Organa one day, had come to stay, and stay for good, except when they were staying in Rome, in the old palace on the Palatine Hill that had been in her family for generations. That was not often, and only when some great event was happening that they must attend to: neither of them cared for the city. 

The lady Renata was a peculiar woman, especially when it came to the goats in the garden. The servants had all scratched their heads when she had proclaimed that the fine old stately garden, with its hedges and flowers and fountains, was to be turned into a goat-pen, but the cheese was admittedly very good, and the milk as well, so they could no longer complain. As for Solo, he could be found at any time up early in the vegetable garden, leaning on his stick as he tended to the beans or the tomatoes or the little vineyard they had started when the children had been born, and the children themselves could be found running about in the gardens, shrieking in delight and making the servants all laugh.

Little Giovanni and Giulia were loved by all who met them: the  _ gemelli _ who were so alike and yet so different. For one, they were boy and girl— Giulia had learned to walk first, but Giovanni had said his first word first (it had been  _ papa) _ ; apart from that, Giulia had her father’s thick dark hair, but her mother’s warm eyes, and a beauty mark high on her left cheek to complement the other marks scattered across her face, while Giovanni took after his mother in coloring and had inherited his father’s ears, which stuck out from his little head like two great half-moons and were kissed often and soundly by his mother. His eyes had already taken on that peculiarly hooded appearance that his father’s had, and were the same dark color: they gave him an air of solemnity beyond his age. Both children were adored by the servants and the steward and the cook and the maids— and most of all, by their parents.

* * *

“Mama!” Giovanni shouted on a hot August day, the sun heating the bricks in the courtyard and making them shimmer, running up on sure feet to the door of the villa. “Mama, a carriage!”

“A carriage!” Renata came out, tying her cap again: she had been looking after the goats and had not heard. One hand screened her eyes as she looked out over the road leading up “Gio, you go and get your sister: I think it is your Nonna and Nonno, or else friends from Rome.”

“Friends from Rome!” he crowed, delighted, and ran as fast as his legs could take him to the other side of the garden, where Papa and his sister were having an intent conversation over the flowers. “Giu-Giu! Papa!”

“A moment of patience, Gio: your sister is telling a story,” said his father, looking over at him, stern but gentle. Giovanni shifted from side to side, resorting to putting his fingers in his mouth so he would not interrupt and be rude. 

“And then, and then I, I, I, well I climbed the tree,” Giulia was saying, “and I saw a bird! A bird! Papa, did you know birds can fly but men cannot fly? Papa, why can men not fly? If men could fly would we go to the trees like birds? I want a pet bird. No, I want to fly.”

“God has ordained that we have legs,” said Papa very seriously, “and that birds have wings. Now, Gio, what is the matter?”

“Nonna and Nonno are coming! Maybe, or it’s other friends, Mama said. It is a carriage. Papa, can I stand with you when the carriage comes up?”

He smiled down at his son as he got clumsily to his feet, leaning on his stick. “Would you like that? You must bow politely when our friends come out, for you are a little gentleman, remember, and Giulia must curtsey.”

“That’s because I’m a little lady,” Giulia said primly.

“That you are,” said Papa, tugging on a lock of her hair. “Come along, and we shall greet our guests.”

* * *

Renata had dusted her skirts clean and just gotten the children to stand still when the carriage pulled up, and out stepped— of all people— Pavo di Damerone, Doge of Venice, and on his arm, Bambina, who was gowned resplendently in fine silks and beaming up at him. She looked quite as young as she had four years ago, while he had seemed to age some: a few white hairs in his lush, dark beard and some deeper laughter lines about his eyes were the only signs of any time passing. “My lord Doge!” said Renata, and curtsied, the children following suit. Beniamino bowed his head politely as Pavo strode forward and kissed him on both cheeks, smiling. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Can a man not stop in for a moment to see his old friends?” asked di Damerone, kissing Renata’s hand. He looked down at the children and crouched to meet them. “Hello, Gio— hello, Giu-Giu. Have you been good?”

“Yes, uncle Pavo!” cried Giulia. 

“Sometimes,” admitted Giovanni, painfully honest to a fault, and Pavo laughed.

“Truth be told,” said Bibi, kissing Rey’s cheek, “we came to ask your husband a favor, but we shall not stay very long. How have you been, my dear Rei?”

“Very well, I thank you: the children grow taller every day along with the flowers, and I can see the sea from the windows.” Rei smiled. “What more could I want?”

“Well, let us all go in,” said Solo, gesturing to the door, “and discover what it is our friend the Doge and his lovely wife have come to ask of us.”

The Doge in question was not done. He pulled out two finely carved wooden horses from under his cloak like a magician and handed them to the children, who squealed in delight and clutched them close. “There,” he said, ruffling their hair, “now you have something to amuse yourselves with while the dreadfully boring old people speak.”

“Go and play in the garden,” said Rei, waving off the twins, and they ran off, laughing and shouting.

* * *

The inside of the house was as unchanged as it had been since Renata’s childhood there, with the exception of more books on shelves and several woven rugs that would never have been allowed on the floor in the days of the old Pope: it warmed the space and made it look comfortable: a country home, not a museum of cool marble sterility. Solo eased himself into his chair with his leg out in front of him, taking a cup of watered wine from the serving-girl who came to offer it, and Pavo di Damerone took one as well. 

“So,” said Solo, “what have you come to ask of us, my old friend?”

“Ah,” said Pavo, drumming his fingers on the table. “I find myself in need of a good counselor in Venice. The colonies along the coast are not stable these days, and I want someone I can trust: so I thought to ask you, Beniamino.”

“You would have a fine home in Venice,” said Bambina quickly, looking at her husband and back at Rei. “And the children would be given everything they could need: I know you love them dearly, Rei, but they are noble children, and they ought to at least be given a chance to live in a city for a while.”

Rei looked at Beniamino, and Beniamino looked at Rei: an understanding passed between them, a silent communication born of closeness. “We will consider it and give you our answer on the morrow,” said Solo. “You do us a very fine honor by asking.”

“It was your mother who suggested you as counselor,” said di Damerone. “You know she has moved up to Venice to be closer to Captain Solo: he calls the  _ Laguna di Venezia _ his home port now and does very well for himself, especially with our Jannah as first-mate on the  _ Falco _ . I believe Lady Leah misses seeing you, and perhaps has a more selfish reason for wishing you to come to Venice: her grandchildren are growing up, and she is old.”

“Rosa said as much in her last letter,” said Rei softly. “She and Pinno saw them in Rome last year when they took their little Mai to visit, and she said that she was surprised at how much she had aged in only a short time.”

“We will take that into consideration, certainly,” said Solo. “You have come a long way, and must stay the night— Bella, will you go and prepare a room for the Doge and Dogaressa?”

The maid curtsied and hurried off, and Rei stood. “We have dinner at six, and the children go to bed at seven— and there is lamb and ribollita for dinner, so do not be late.”

* * *

After dinner, when the children had been tucked in and their guests sent off to retire, Rei and Beniamino went to their own bedroom. He shut the doors and went to the bed, his stick thumping gently into the floor, and she knew that look in his eyes as he sat heavily, that set of his shoulders by now: he did not want to speak, he wanted to delay the inevitable speaking that must come, to think of anything else at all.

“Ben,” she said softly, unlacing her gown. “Lie down. I will come to you in a moment.”

He took off his working-boots and stretched out, a soft sound of pain escaping him as he stretched his legs. Rei frowned. His hip must be stiff again— she would have to find the warming ointment and rub it in again for him. Of course, he could do it himself, but she did not mind tending him, and he did not mind her doing it for him. 

She took off her chemise and hung it aside, then stepped to the bed and watched his eyes flicker over her, as they always did: her belly still clung to a soft fold of thin, wrinkled skin left from carrying the twins, and faded, silvery marks trailed like forked lightning along her sides, yet he had never thought that her body was anything less than beautiful, a gift from God. “Come here,” he said, voice gone dark, and she did, climbing up and straddling his waist, kissing his face as she fumbled with his clothing.

In a short time, he was naked, his clothes cast on the floor, and she traced her hands over his breast, the brown and pink scars there. His hands, sure and firm, took her by her soft hips and moved her over his flesh, making her sigh a little as he warmed himself along her. “My sweet Rei,” he whispered, lips trembling, and sheathed himself to the hilt, sighing as she bent down, framing his face with her arms and moaning softly into his long, dark hair.

It had only been a few months since they had discovered that this position allowed him to exercise his full duty as a husband: it had been a long time coming, but at last he could bear some weight on his hips— enough, at least, for this, praise be to God.

She shifted, and he hissed in pain at the increase on his thighs. Rei lifted her backside a little, letting him move beneath her as he would. “I— ah, sorry for it,” she panted down into his ear, and he shook his head as if to say  _ it is no matter _ , mouth fastening softly on her breast. 

“I— I—” He gasped a moment, trying to catch himself, then groaned loudly into her neck, gripping her hips with bruising force as his strokes became softer, uneven, graceless: he was spilling, undone within her. “Oh, _ Rei _ …”

She sighed against his cheek and lifted off him carefully. He looked young again, blissful and caring for nothing as he lay there, his hands falling from her body and splaying out against his belly and chest. Rei lay down beside him, tenderly running her fingers down his shoulder and back up as his breathing slowed and evened. 

When he was recovered, he sat up with a grunt, picked up his stick, and hobbled to the window, which he flung wide open, looking out over the land as the sunset painted it in deep oranges and roses. “Venice,” he said dryly after a long moment, turning to look at her. “What think you, then?”

“Well,” she said, slipping off the bed, putting on a robe, and coming to stand by him, “I think it is very far, and the children will be enamored of such a pretty place. And yet, we must consider that putting ourselves into the midst of the  _ nobili _ will almost certainly bring them into the light; marriage offers, betrothals, and the like. Who would not wish to contract a marriage with a child of the Duca d’Organa and the last di Palatine? Little Gio will be Duca one day, after all, and must learn his duty. We do him no favors by remaining here while he grows.”

“I thought that, too,” he said, looking at her. “Do I hear some bitterness in your voice?”

“It is only…” She sighed. “When I am out here, I am nobody: not a di Palatine, not a fine lady. I am just a woman, a mother, a wife: I care for my goats and I am teaching myself how to play the harpsichord and reading and showing the children how to swim in the ocean. If I go to Venice, I will be only Lady di Palatine, and all people will see of me is  _ him. _ ”

“Rei,” he said softly, and pulled her into an embrace one-armed, burying his nose in her hair. “Ah, my Rei. Yes, I know. I… I feel that staying here protects us all: you from your grandfather’s infamy, me from my duties which I must take up as Duca d’Organa and my own past deeds— and the children from a life of chaos and intrigue and— when they are older— sin.”

“But they might not fall prey to stronger men, if they were raised to be clever against it,” said Renata, raising her head to look at her husband. “And they will have a friend in Mai: she is three, now, and will grow up with them there.”

“No,” he agreed, “they may not fall prey if warned. They are their mother’s children, after all: intelligent.” She gave him a smile, and he returned it before letting his face fall back down into solemnity. “I confess I am reluctant, for to go to Venice would be, in a way, to acknowledge… that my mother is not immortal, although we all know it: I have not wished to look it in the face. I cannot do that any longer, I think. Children do not understand that their parents will die…but I—”

“Have put away childish things,” said Rei, stroking a lock of dark hair back to tuck behind his broad ear. “Whatever we choose, my dear Beniamino, Pavo and Bibi will understand.”

“I shall have to make a decision,” Beniamino muttered. “Perhaps I ought to get a counselor myself.”

“You have one: me,” said Rey, smiling. “But lest you make any uninformed decision, I ought to tell you… I have missed my last two courses.”

He froze, staring at her. “You… you have?”

Trembling excitement stoked like a fire in her belly. “I have. I will see a midwife as soon as can be arranged, and I was going to tell you next week, for that would measure three courses missed, but—”

“My God,” said Beniamino, and toppled to the ground on his better knee, making Rei shriek in delighted horror as he embraced her about the waist and pressed a kiss to her belly. “My God: another one? Are we so blessed?”

“I hope to God and all the angels it is only one: I do not know what we would do with another set of twins— but yes, you may very well say we are blessed.”

“Then I will,” he said, turning up his face to look at her, his eyes wide and shining with tears. “I will, a hundred times; my sweet Rei: every day I thank God that we are.”

“Indeed,” said Rei softly, bending down to kiss his head and pull him to his feet. “And now abide these three: faith, hope, love…”

“You need not tell me what the greatest is,” said Beniamino Solo, “for I already know it well.” And he embraced Renata as the sun set over the hot summer evening, rays of golden light piercing every cloud; a halo of glory in the seat of Heaven above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Jannah totally became the best privateer ever and sent Pinno presents every single holiday. One year she finds him a copy of the Qur'an that's just gorgeously detailed and he cries when he gets it   
> \- MAIIII. FINNROSE BABY. She absolutely becomes a writer. "Mai" means "blossom" in Vietnamese  
> \- I know I left the ending ambiguous but THEY TOTALLY MOVED TO VENICE AND HAD A ZILLION KIDS AND WERE JUST OVERRUN WITH ROLY POLY CHUBBY BABIES THAT THEY LOVED WITH ALL THEIR HEARTS. THE END.
> 
> In all seriousness the reception of this fic has blown my dang socks off. Thank you so much for every subscription and comment and kudos and moodboard and TEA and artwork and goofy meme. You can find me on twitter @neon_heartbeat if you want to shriek at me about anything, and I think the next fic I do will be a modern band AU heavily featuring the Knights of Ren, if any of you are into that kind of thing, so stay tuned for that! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.


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